Born of Blood and Water
by TheKingsofHell
Summary: Refusing to adjust to his new life alone, Crowley seeks to recover Murron's soul from Hell.
1. Prologue

Prologue

The roaring overhead had ceased. Crowley could still hear Dean's insistent voice outside as he reassured Sam. They'd forgotten about him still chained to the floor and bound by the Devil's Trap. It was just as well. He was too tired to really care what happened to him now. Too tired and too convinced of the belief he was beyond consideration.

He shifted uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair; the chain connecting the shackle around his neck twisted and forced him back with a jerk. He fell back against the headrest with a pained grunt. Every part of him ached. His face burned from where Abaddon had struck him repeatedly; blood still stained his lips and congealed in his beard. Sweat mingled with tears to create dry, itchy patches down his cheeks. He didn't bother attempting to relieve this discomfort. His hands hung limp in his lap, bound still by the enchanted manacles. He was hot, his head throbbed, his legs had gone slightly numb from being unable to move; worse still, his heart felt like a heavy burden in his chest.

Sam's blood continued to course through his veins, warming it in ways he'd forgotten were possible. It was as if the boy's own regrets had fueled Crowley's, leading to this overwhelming sense of despair currently plaguing his heart and mind. He looked up towards the ceiling, then over at the broken window. He couldn't see anything; what was the point in trying? He moved in the chair again, the chain clanking like an anchor's along the church floor. The sound echoed through the derelict building. He shifted again, trying to gain something resembling comfort in the unforgiving chair. The chain continued to rattle behind him, causing a great cacophony of sound that echoed throughout the building.

"Keep it down in there!" Dean bellowed suddenly from outside.

Crowley froze. He tried to speak, but his throat felt too raw. Any attempt resulted in a gasping noise, either from the weight of the shackle or his own exhaustion. He continued to move about in the chair, sending the long chain into a frenzy of sound until he heard the doors open. "The hell you doin' in here? Havin' a party?" Dean demanded, rounding the chair to glare down at Crowley.

Crowley swallowed hard, then forced the words to come. "Let me go." Dean stared at him incredulously. It was apparent he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. Crowley lifted his hands. "Take these off, then. Take this off," he stretched his neck slightly. "I can't go anywhere. You know that."

"Yeah, well, you're just gonna have to sit there and deal with it until I know what we're gonna do with you," Dean said firmly. He turned and left. Crowley bent his head, the shackle biting into his skin, and resigned himself to waiting. After a moment, he could hear Dean speaking louder than before, protesting something Sam had said. He lifted his eyes, daring to hope again, when Dean reappeared.

He marched over to Crowley and began unlocking the collar and manacles on his wrists and ankles. Crowley watched him out the corner of his eye in silence. When all restraints had been removed, Crowley slumped in the chair and closed his eyes. He would have thanked Dean, but the other had already gone back outside. It was just as well. It would have been rebuffed. Dean had no cause to accept a demon's gratitude, nor could Crowley blame him.

The chair quickly became a poor resting place, prompting Crowley to slide out of it and lay on the floor. He curled onto his side, one arm pillowing his head, his back against the chair legs, and his mind a jumble of thoughts. He felt the crushing weight of self-loathing settling over him. It wasn't a foreign sensation. He'd experienced it countless times, even when his inhumanity had robbed him of all things save self-preservation. Now it no longer seemed to matter if he survived this. What would be the point? He had no followers, not a single demon in Hell had been truly loyal. There was no way he could resume his position as King of Hell with how he was now. An emotional king? He'd be laughed out of Hades. He'd spent the majority of his time as the Crossroads King, as a demon alone, being the butt of everyone's jokes. No one had ever afforded him a measure of respect, even when he had titles. He'd been a powerful, cunning demon, worthy of the respect he felt he deserved, yet not a one of them had condescended to view him as more than a joke. No, he would never be able to return to Hell and hope to reclaim what he'd fought so hard to obtain.

He wanted to sleep. It was a strange feeling, the need for sleep. His eyes closed almost against his will and soon he'd drifted off into an uncomfortable slumber. The scenes behind his eyelids were erratic, as close to dreams as a demon could call them. Most were bloody, peppered with his own declarations of impeccable skill and smarts, with the uplifting feeling of triumph whenever he succeeded in surviving yet another impossible scenario. These taunted him and he shrunk away from them mentally and physically.

Then, a warmth filled him. He felt someone's hand on his brow and a soothing voice whispered comforting words in his ear. He turned his face towards this warmth, the memory of a year spent this way smoothing away the pain in his heart. A face began to form in his mind's eyes, pale and haloed by copper brilliance. Gentle brown eyes gazed down at him, filled with such affection he felt for certain it was a dream and not a memory at all. Who could have ever looked at him that way? Who would have dared?

Before he could recall a name, a rough hand shook him awake. Crowley blinked rapidly, then twisted to see Dean leaning over him. "Let's go," the hunter ordered gruffly. Crowley staggered to his feet, his mouth opening to ask what was going on. Without warning, a burlap sack was yanked over his head and his hands were bound behind his back. The sack was emblazoned with a Devil's Trap; a trick Dean undoubtedly had learned from Crowley himself. He was led outside by Dean's hasty grip on his upper arm; in another moment, he was being put into the back seat of the Impala. Crowley could hear Sam's ragged breathing from the front seat. He leaned towards the sound.

"Sam...?" Crowley managed through the muffled constraints of the sack.

"Hang in there, Sammy. I'm gonna get you outta here," Dean's voice sounded from the driver's side. Crowley fell silent as the engine roared to life. He flopped back against the seat when the car tore away at top speed, his temple striking a protruding seatbelt port. He saw stars briefly, then the sound of Dean's voice fading into the background as unconsciousness overtook him.

" - can't believe you wanna do this! It's crazy! You should be back at the Batcave where I can take care of you, not here with the King of Feelings!"

The muffled sound of Dean's protests pulled Crowley back from unconsciousness. He opened his eyes and took a look around. The room was dark save for a sliver of light coming from beneath the door. He could make out Dean's shadow as the hunter paced about in the other room.

"Dean, he's my responsibility. I made him that way. It's only right that I keep an eye on him," Sam was saying in response to his brother's words. He sounded absolutely knackered. "You don't have to stay here. Garth's already agreed to check on me from time to time, just like he did with Kevin. You should be out there looking for Cas, not babysitting me."

"This is still crazy, Sammy. What if he gets out? Powers up again or somethin'? You're too weak to fight!"

"If I'm in no condition to fight, Crowley sure as hell isn't, either. Did you look at him? I mean really look at him? Between the trial and Abaddon's beating, he won't be getting up for weeks. There's wards on the door and he's in a Devil's Trap. He's not going anywhere."

When silence fell between the brothers, Crowley looked around to confirm what Sam had already said. He was indeed in another Devil's Trap; he could feel the wards pulsating just beyond the Trap's circle. His hands and feet were unbound, not that either mattered. He was effectively trapped even without the addition of chains.

"I'm still not cool with this," Dean continued. "You're sure?" he asked after a pregnant pause.

"Yes, I'm sure. I'll be fine. I swear," Sam replied, sounding more exhausted than before. The exchange was taking a toll on his already worn psyche. Crowley's ability to sympathise with the younger Winchester would have shocked him more if he hadn't already been secretly doing it for years. In the spirit of this, he raised his voice the best he could and spoke towards the door.

"Sam's right," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

The door opened, spilling harsh light into the dark room. Crowley squinted into the sudden glare, barely able to make out Dean's silhouette. "Oh, I know you're not goin' anywhere, Crowley. I made sure of that."

Crowley stared at him. "Even without these precautions, where would I go?" he asked quietly. The question was rhetorical, though he could see Dean searching for an answer. "There's nothing more you could do to keep me here than what I've already done to myself. I've no home to go to. I'm back where I started."

"Back at the bottom of the totem pole, is that it?" Dean asked gruffly. Crowley lowered his head. "About damn time."

"Dean," Sam admonished weakly. Dean glanced over his shoulder at his brother. "Let it go."

"I will, but only because you asked me to," Dean replied, looking back at Crowley sternly before closing the door. "Garth's comin' back soon. You take it easy, okay?"

"I will, Dean. I'll call you if anything changes," Sam assured him. Crowley heard Dean moving about and continuing to voice his concerns to Sam for wanting to stay with Crowley alone; at length, he heard Dean leave. He sat staring at the closed door, the silence around him near unbearable. He wanted to communicate, to speak his mind, to hear any other voice than the one screaming in his head. That voice abused him, calling him a failure and a coward. He didn't want to listen to that voice anymore. It wasn't telling him anything he hadn't muttered to himself in the church.

He could remember another voice, a kinder voice, that would speak to him at night. It'd said gentle, loving things. Things he never believed he'd hear from another living thing. Had it been the same dream he'd had before waking up here? That pretty face with the kind eyes? Who was that? He narrowed his eyes slightly, forcing himself to focus on the image. It blurred and shifted, the features never coming clear. After a moment, he gave up with a silent sigh and stretched out on the hard wooden floor. He lay curled with his back to the door. He held himself tightly and brought his knees up to his chest, as if he could physically shut out the negative thoughts continuing to march across the landscape of his mind.

In the suffocating darkness, Crowley eventually found sleep. He fell into it gratefully, the faint sound of a woman's laugh echoing in his mind.

The creak of the floorboards beneath his head drew Crowley from the respite of slumber; he lifted his head groggily, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder. Sam stood in the doorway, a tray balanced in one hand. He looked drawn: his cheeks were hollow and there were heavy shadows under his eyes. Still, he moved with a strength Crowley was certain he didn't feel as he stepped into the room and laid the tray down outside of the Trap's border.

Crowley sat up, lifting his eyes to meet Sam's tired gaze. Sam gestured down at the tray and murmured, "Thought you'd be hungry."

"I am," Crowley realised, absently touching his stomach. "Thank you, Sam."

"It's not much. Just a sandwich and water. Garth's bringing supplies," Sam explained needlessly, his eyes shifting away from Crowley's face as he spoke. He appeared dazed, as though he couldn't remember how he'd gotten inside the room. He shook his head haltingly, muttered something Crowley couldn't make out, then turned and left.

Crowley moved closer to the tray, reaching out to carefully catch its edge and draw it into the circle. The sandwich in question was a ham and cheese combo on slightly stiff white bread. A packet's worth of mayonnaise moistened the bread just enough to make it palatable. He ate slowly, his mind blessedly devoid of the nagging voice. The brief exchange had helped, it seemed.

He didn't like being alone. Alone meant no one cared. Alone meant no one was there to listen to him or compliment him on his cleverness. His brow furrowed, his jaw slowing as he found himself thinking back to that same dim memory. Someone had been there for him to listen to him and applaud his successes. Where did that person go? Had they left him the same way his followers had?

Then, almost as if by instinct, Crowley scratched at his chest. A sudden warmth there made him look down, puzzled. He set the sandwich back on the tray and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. He parted the lapels, straining to see what it was that burned there in the dim light. He ran his fingertips over the spot gingerly, his breath catching to discover a raised symbol burned into his flesh. He traced its outline carefully, the memory of the other steadily growing more vivid. When he'd completed the circuit to form the symbol, a name rose so forcefully to the forefront of his mind, the wind was knocked clean from him.

_Murron._

Immediately his eyes began to fill with tears. They coursed down his bruised cheek, stinging the still-healing wounds to match the pain he felt seizing his heart. How could he have forgotten about her? Hadn't he ensured her soul would never be touched by Hell's influence? Had he erased his own memories of her in the process? Or had his ascent to power blocked out the last act of goodness he'd granted her soul? She'd been a weakness; of course he'd blocked her out.

But now, with a heart as raw as an exposed nerve, he remembered her as vividly as though she'd died just the day before. He could hear her voice, her laugh, feel the warmth of her skin on his, the texture of her hair as he wound it about his fingers - he _remembered _her.

A tortured, choking cry escaped his throat and he covered his face with both hands. The anguish washed over him in quaking waves, crippling his senses to the point he didn't realise Sam was there until he felt the boy's firm grip on his shoulders. Crowley raised his head, vision lost in the flood of tears that would not stop, perceiving that Sam was speaking to him, but his voice refused to register through the roaring in Crowley's ears.

"- what's wrong? Crowley!" Sam's voice broke through the veil of Crowley's pain. Clarity returned to his gaze as he met Sam's eyes. "Why are you screaming?"

Had he been screaming? Crowley couldn't be sure. He swallowed, surprised to find his throat dry. His face contorted on the emotions still moving through him. "Is she here?" he managed, his voice so hoarse it was barely audible. Sam stared at him, lost.

"Is _who _here?"

Crowley drew his brows together, his gaze shifting away from Sam's face to stare off into the distance. "No, she's not here. She's still there. I have to get her out. I can't let her stay down there."

"You're babbling," Sam interjected, giving Crowley's shoulder another shake and forcing the other to look at him again. The lucidity in Crowley's eyes had vanished again, replaced by an intense sadness.

"I need her back, Sam. I'm lost without her." His voice cracked and he looked away again. Sam was silent, not that anything he said could've broken the despair that made Crowley's heart heavy inside his chest. All he could think about was Murron, alone and defenseless back in Hell. He pressed a shaking hand to his chest where her protective sigil burned. He couldn't feel her through the Devil's Trap or the wards around the room. "I need to feel her. I need to know she's okay," he said, more to himself than Sam. "I can't feel her here."

"Who are you talking about, Crowley?" Sam asked, his voice low. When Crowley didn't react, he repeated himself, this time a little more insistently. Crowley turned his head towards him shakily, as though he'd forgotten he was there.

"Murron," he replied simply, softly. "The absolute only person to have ever loved me, for me. She -" he paused to swallow thickly, the memory bringing fresh pain. "She was a demon deal. Just a normal, boring demon deal. Anyone could have gone to her. But she wanted me. _Me._ Why would anyone want me?" His words drifted off. "The things I've done. The things I encouraged her to do. No, no." He shook his head. "The things she'd done for me. She gave me her soul, but it was more than that. I had her heart as well." He laughed brokenly, then looked up at Sam, his face twisting as he struggled not to lose his voice again. "Do you believe in unconditional love, Sam?"

Sam regarded him in silence. He made a small noise of indecision, then shrugged. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do. Why?"

"Because that's what it was for her. Unconditional," Crowley drew out the word like a prayer. "I was a killer - I am a killer - but she never tried, not once, to change me. I used to think she was crazy; who _loves _a monster?"

Sam seemed to be at a loss. "Maybe she saw something in you worth loving?" he offered uncertainly. Crowley's lips twitched upward in a sad smile. Sam sighed. "I don't know. People...people love for a lot of reasons. She must've had hers. She never told you?"

"She did. I think she did," Crowley's gaze shifted as he sought the memory. "Yes," he said at last, relieved. "It was on the island. I'd taken her there during her last month alive. She didn't want to stay the whole time. She wanted to die in her own home. I'd given her that, too." He stopped, eyelids twitching. "Why can't I remember how she smelled? I remember loving that the best, but I can't remember it now..."

"You loved her?" Sam's voice broke into Crowley's memories. He sounded incredulous, but not rudely so. Crowley thought about his question, then nodded.

"I did. I do. I think I always did. I never told her. Maybe if I had, she'd still be here. It would be her taking care of me now. I wouldn't be here, in this trap." He looked down at the pentacle holding him in. "I'd be home with her. I'd be safe." He stopped again and was silent for a long time. "I need her back, Sam. I have to go back into Hell for her."

"How?"

Here Crowley lowered his gaze briefly. When he turned his eyes back towards Sam, they were hopeful. "I need your help, Sam. Will you help me get the woman I love back?"


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Crowley remained in the secured room, volunteering to keep himself contained. This didn't stop Sam from coming in and sitting with him at the edge of the Devil's Trap, wrapped in a quilt to stave off the shakes that continued to plague him. The incomplete trials were still inside him. He was holding up as well as to be expected, but even Crowley knew the boy had a threshold. They were both burdened with the after-effects of the trial; though, for Crowley, it was more a matter of adjusting to his new emotional state. Sam had it considerably worse. Still, even when Crowley had suggested he go back to Dean, Sam had rejected the idea, insisting he was fine. Thus, he stayed on, and slowly, he and Crowley began to form a kind of uncertain companionship.

With the Trap between them, they shared their thoughts on a variety of subjects. Much of the time Sam simply listened to Crowley's recount of his year with Murron. It provided the unlikely companions with a new ground to stand on rather than focusing on all that had come before. Their history was long and bloody, true, but in the interest of repentance, they chose to turn a blind eye to the past. Sometimes it was unavoidable, in the course of his retelling, for Crowley to reference an instance where he and the Winchesters had clashed. Sam shrugged these off as best he could, for which Crowley was thankful.

"Murron doesn't sound like the typical witch," Sam observed one evening as they sat in the half-darkness of Crowley's room. "Most of them make demon deals for personal gain, like power or something."

"She was unique," Crowley agreed wistfully. "She would never let herself become too greedy. It used to infuriate me to no end, how selfless she was. I wanted her to make demands of me, to make the most of the deal. But no, she almost always held herself back. It wasn't until many months into our arrangement that she took advantage. I won't bother with the details; I'm sure you can gather for yourself what they are."

Sam grimaced a bit, shifting within the enveloping confines of his quilt as though he could physically escape the mental images. "What happened when it was time for you to...to collect her soul?" he asked hesitantly, as if he knew it was a sensitive question. Though Crowley bore it well enough, his eyes misted over as he spoke.

"She was experiencing the madness. The hallucinations, sounds, everything. I remember it well now. How aware were you when Dean was about to die? I know you were there when Lilith came for him."

"If you're asking me if I witnessed Dean's hallucinations or his reactions to them, the answer is yes. He didn't tell me everything, but I saw enough," Sam replied quietly.

"Then you know what it does to a person. How it feels to watch something like that. It never used to concern me how Hellbound souls suffered," Crowley remarked off-handedly. "But then I saw her suffering and it tore me apart. I couldn't let what happened to them happen to her, but at the same time, I couldn't bring myself to offer her an alternative. She ended up asking me to do it."

"How did you do it?" Sam asked.

Crowley lifted his chin slightly, his lips folding together as the memory moved over his mind's eye. "I - I crushed her heart." His voice broke despite his best efforts. He sat collecting himself for a few minutes, then continued. "I burned her body so no one could use her against me. Then I had her hidden away in a secluded part of Hell. I put my love under Eden."

"Under Eden?" Sam repeated, brow creasing. "What do you mean?"

"Ancient Mesopotamian city. Said to be the true location of the biblical Eden," Crowley explained after he'd collected himself. "In reality, she's beneath the general area of the Middle East. Hell is vast, incredibly vast. What you've seen is only a fraction of how large it really is."

Sam considered this. "Could Abaddon find her?"

"If the enchantments I put on Murron's crypt continue to hold, no. Abaddon, or anyone in Hell, wouldn't be able to detect her. I might have forgotten her in my rise to power, but I never would have treated so precious a gift so carelessly. Her importance to me is why I must get her out."

"She has no body to bind her here, though, right? How will you bring her back?"

At that, Crowley faultered. He hadn't considered that, so eager to get her out that he'd neglected the logistics of it. Then he thought of the sigil on his chest. Could it be the binding she needed? Could he host her soul until he could find a way to restore her? Murron's brand of witchcraft was so different from his own; it was difficult to say what particulars were necessary for the sigil to be enough.

At length, Crowley looked up at Sam. "She has me," he declared. "Once I have her, I'll figure the rest out."

"It's strange hearing you talk like this," Sam remarked. "Not just about the emotions, but also how you're actually doing something without having a plan first. I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

Crowley smiled faintly. "Humanity is a crippling thing, but it also lets you get away with being as stupid as possible. Sometimes a little idiocy is required to get the job done."

Sam chuckled, then paused to cough and clear his throat. "I want to help you. That sounds just as crazy as you going in without a plan, but...I guess I can sympathise? You have this opportunity. Most of us don't." He coughed again and drew the edges of his quilt tighter around him. "I can't do anything for awhile, though. I'm still struggling with the trials."

"And I'm still trapped," Crowley added, glancing down at the circle's boundaries. "Might I ask a favor, Sam?"

"Yeah."

"Can you remove the wards on the door? I can handle being in the Trap, but I need to feel her. I think without the wards I could do that." His voice was so earnest Sam couldn't help but agree. He rose from the floor and moved about the room, scratching away at the glyphs to break their enchantments. As each one was broken, Crowley began to feel the sigil's warmth radiating inside him. He crossed his hands over it and closed his eyes, sighing. "Thank you, Sam. That's all I needed."

Sam moved towards the door. "Call if there's anything else I can do," he offered, then left.

Alone, Crowley curled up with the sensation of Murron's energy pulsing beneath his hands. The previously suffocating feeling of isolation that had pervaded the room lifted and he was able to truly rest. Shortly after he'd closed his eyes, he felt his awareness beginning to drift away, led by the singular desire to be near her again.

The candles in the crypt flickered when he walked in, his arrival bringing forth a gust of warm wind. The room shone with golden light, lending a peaceful glow to everything it touched. The glass coffin on the raised dais in the center sparkled like a thousand diamonds, its facets intersped with brilliant flashes of copper. He approached the dais and peered down at the sleeping face of the woman he loved. As if sensing him, her eyes opened and she smiled tenderly up at him.

_My darling. My love._

The lid opened and she sat up, arms reaching for him. He rounded the coffin and lifted her from the pristine interior to cradle her close to his chest. She tucked her head between his chin and shoulder, her arms around his neck, as he carried her away into an adjacent chamber.

A massive four-poster bed took up the majority of the room; he laid her gingerly down on the smooth black covers, her dress and skin as bright as sunlight against the fabric. He stretched out beside her, propped on an elbow so he could stare lovingly into her smiling face. She cupped his cheek, her fingers smoothing his coarse beard. He closed his eyes at her touch. How he missed this. How many precious moments like this had been wasted then? His pride and her fear, both had worked against them. If his plan to restore her to life didn't work, they'd never have the chance to make up for it. And if he died, they would have no afterlife to share. He simply had to get her out of Hell so these dreams could be made real.

He took her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. _If I could have told you how much you meant to me then, who knows what might've changed? Had I allowed myself to say those words that you needed so badly to hear, where would we be now? _

When his shoulders began to shake and tears formed in his eyes, she pulled him down to her and gently coaxed his head onto her chest. She stroked his hair as he wept quietly, his fingers curling in the fabric of her dress. Even in the dream he could feel her warmth and how it calmed him as much as it grieved him. The touch her hand on the back of his head, her fingertips sliding through the short strands of his hair, all of these things were felt as surely as they ever had. He turned his face towards the rise of her breasts, kissing her there slowly, repeatedly. _My darling, what I wouldn't do to have you with me now. My Murron, my beautiful, beloved, mad Murron. I need you. _

Crowley's face was wet when he opened his eyes. The ache in his heart was almost unbearable. How long would he have to endure this?

He pushed himself up slowly, wincing when pain shot through his spine. Sleeping on the floor was less than favorable. He rolled his shoulders, grunting as his bones cracked and clicked back into place. He glanced over at the closed door; a faint light shone beneath it. Sam was awake. Good.

"Sam?" he called tentatively. "Are you out there?"

A shuffle of footsteps sounded. Crowley frowned. They weren't heavy enough to be Sam's; who else was in the cabin? When the door opened, a tall, lanky figure stood on the threshold, outlined by the television's soft glow.

"Wow," the figure breathed, taking a few steps in and closing the door halfway. "Sam really is holding the King of Hell in his cabin." The stranger's voice was surprisingly kind and laidback for what he was saying. Crowley got a better look at him when he sat down just outside the circle. He had a young face with large eyes peering out from beneath a swoop of nondescript brown fringe. He stuck out a hand to Crowley. "I'm Garth."

So, this was the other hunter Sam had mentioned. Crowley glanced down at the offered hand, debating whether or not to shake it. Garth wiggled it a little, a smile breaking out across his face. Any other day and this would have earned him a very negative response. However, those days were practically nonexistant now. He'd already begun a clean slate with one hunter; why not another?

Crowley accepted Garth's handshake, keeping his grip hesitant. Garth had no such restraint and clasped Crowley's hand tightly as he shook it enthusiastically. The hunter made a surprised noise when Crowley's shoulder popped from the excessive jangling. "Oh, oops! Sorry about that, dude. Don't know my own strength sometimes!" he grinned, withdrawing his hand and assuming a more comfortable position. He continued to stare at Crowley, smiling in a friendly and inviting manner. "Sam says you're in a bad way, too. Your face looks better than he described, though! You should be happy about that."

Crowley blinked slowly at him. What kind of a hunter was this? He looked like a strong wind could blow him over. What more, he had no idea how to react to such congeniality. "You are aware of how strange this is, aren't you?" he asked finally. Garth laughed heartily.

"Don't get me wrong," he began when he'd calmed down, "I've ganked a lot of your kind. I know how you guys are. But you? You've got your humanity back, right? That makes you different. That makes you easier to talk to. Sam says you're trying to get your girlfriend back; is that true? You have a girlfriend?"

"Sams says an awful lot," Crowley muttered, glancing over Garth's shoulder into the living room. "Why did he tell you my business?"

"'Cause someone's gonna have to stay back and handle Dean when he finds out Sam's gone back to Hell," Garth replied matter-of-factly. Crowley blinked again. "Oh yeah, Sam's decided to help you the second he's cool to go. Sounds like you guys are becoming friends!"

Crowley was at a loss. Even with their talks, he'd never suspected Sam would ever consider him as a friend. He feared their history was too complicated for that. It was also possible that that was Garth's word and not Sam's. Until he heard it from Sam himself, Crowley would reserve judgment. Instead, he made a noncommital noise in response. It was reassuring to know Sam had his back, even if the hunter had previous prejudices against Crowley's kind.

"How you gonna get back into Hell?" Garth asked, breaking into Crowley's thoughts. "Must be nuts down there without you."

If Abaddon was having her way, it would be the same mess he'd found it in, only amplified. "I have my ways," Crowley replied. "Where's Sam?"

"Sleeping. I'm here until he wakes up."

"If you could tell him I'd like to talk to him when he wakes up, I'd appreciate it," Crowley said, beginning to shift away from the skinny hunter. Garth took the hint, said he'd do just that, and left the room.

Several hours later, Sam came into the room, swathed as usual in his favorite quilt, and carrying a tray. This he set down within the boundaries of the trap, then took his usual spot on the floor. As Crowley picked through the tray's offerings, Sam spoke. "Garth said you wanted to see me?"

Crowley nodded. "I dreamt about her, about Murron," he began, pausing to inspect the tea Sam had included on the tray. "I think that means she's still safe. That's encouraging. Sneaking about in Hell will be difficult enough; doing so while attempting to rescue her soul should she be taken in by Abaddon or some other fool demon would be doubly so. I couldn't even tell you the extent of my powers now, Trap or not."

"I can certainly tell you the extent of mine," Sam remarked. He coughed briefly, then sniffled. "I still feel like a fleet of trucks hit me." He gathered the quilt around him more, burrowing deeper into it. "I can't really sleep and when I do, it's always restless. I'm in constant pain. My head aches, my arms and legs feel like they're gonna fall off - these trials are killing me, I think."

"They say things get worse before they get better," Crowley offered hopefully. "You beat Lucifer; you'll beat this, too."

Sam looked genuinely surprised. "Wow," he stammered. "That's actually really nice of you to say. Thanks."

Crowley shrugged. "I already said I was proud of you."

"You also said you'd deny it if I tried to quote you."

"So I did," Crowley agreed with a little smile. "Things change."

"Yeah, they really do," Sam said, also smiling. They were quiet for awhile as Crowley ate. He glanced up at Sam a few times, studying the boy's wane face. He hoped it was truly just a simple case of his getting worse before he got better; from his perspective, Sam was looking far worse than when they'd started. Again, the notion of suggesting Sam return to Dean for better care came to Crowley. The other hunter, that Garth kid, didn't seem too equipped to be a proper caregiver, and Crowley himself was almost no better, not to mention trapped.

"You might want to start taking better care of yourself if you want to get over this," Crowley remarked mildly. Sam coughed in response, then shook his head.

"Even if I did go back to Dean, he's too busy looking for Cas," he deflected, shrugging himself further into his blanket. "He can't do everything. I'll be fine."

"Just the same. I'm..._concerned_." The word fell from Crowley's lips uncertainly, as though he feared it would be taken poorly. Sam raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. "You don't look well, mate, let's put it that way," Crowley continued, his words finding strength. "If the trials are, indeed, killing you, you need to find a way around it. To get over it. The support of your brother might be the only solution."

"Half-support you mean" Sam mumbled.

Crowley smirked. "Don't be stupid, Sam. At least you have someone who cares about what happens to you."

"So do you," Sam countered.

"She's not here," Crowley rejoined.

"Not yet," Sam declared firmly, a hardness entering his eyes. "I'm gonna get over this and then we're gonna go and get her back. When we've done that, then I'll go to Dean and let him fuss over me. But not before. He'd never understand why I'd be doing this."

"Why are you doing it, then?" Crowley asked softly, moved by the boy's words.

"I know what it's like to lose someone," Sam replied after a moment's reflection. "If I could get Jess back, even after all this time, I'd jump at it. I'd fly at it. You've got the chance to get Murron back and I'm gonna help you with that. Besides," he added with a wondering noise and a shaky smile, "what's one more crazy thing in a lifetime of crazy things?"

"Can't argue with that," Crowley remarked, returning the smile. He sobered. "Thank you again, Sam. This means a lot. It really does."

"Well, don't get squishy on me, Crowley. I don't think I could stomach that," Sam feigned a grimace and they both chuckled. When they'd quieted, Sam glanced around the room. "You don't have to stay in here if you don't want to," he offered. "Sleeping on the floor can't be good for your recovery."

"Don't worry about me." Crowley waved Sam's concern away with a careless hand. "Keeping me in the Trap is smarter than letting me out, at least for now."

Sam looked unconvinced, but said nothing more on the subject. He grunted as a wave of pain moved through him. "I think I'm gonna lie down for a few hours," he said, rising on shaking legs and starting for the door. He'd just reached for the knob when he cried out and fell to the ground, convulsing.

Crowley was on his feet immediately. He stood as close to the circle as he could stand and called out, "Sam! What is it? Is it the trials?"

Sam twisted on the floor, unable to respond. Crowley cursed angrily, then looked about himself for a tool. The butter knife on the food tray. He snatched it up and threw it down onto the Trap's border, severing the enchantment. Freed, he hurried to Sam's side and hoisted him up into a sitting position. Crowley supported Sam's upper body as the tremors worked their way through his system.

After a few more convulsions, Sam finally calmed down and relaxed against Crowley's chest. His breathing was shallow and he seemed partially unconscious. Crowley heaved with all his strength to lift the boy to his feet, their height difference making it difficult to support Sam well enough to escort him to the couch. Still, he endeavored, one arm around Sam's waist and the other holding Sam's arm over his shoulders. He rocked from side to side as he walked Sam to the couch, eventually lowering him onto the worn cushions. Crowley arranged the semi-conscious hunter as best he could, grunting when he lifted Sam's legs up onto the sofa. Finally, he covered him with the quilt, then sat back onto the coffee table with an exhausted sigh.

"You're one heavy moose, Moose," Crowley remarked, wiping sweat from his brow. He peered into Sam's face. "Now you're an unconscious one." He blew out a breath, then glanced back into the room. He'd broken the Trap. Sam would have to fix it whenever he woke up. Until then, Crowley was free to do whatever he wanted.

So he sat beside the slumbering, weakened Sam, and waited.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

To the boy's credit, Sam didn't seem surprised to find Crowley sitting beside him when he woke up. He simply cleared his throat and asked what had happened.

"You had an...episode, I guess you could call it," Crowley explained. "The trials are still making their way out of your system. How often do you have these attacks?"

Sam's brows drew down over his eyes briefly as he thought. "Couple times a day since the church."

"Are they getting worse or better?"

"About the same."

Crowley grimaced. "You can't keep on this way, Sam. You need help."

Sam shook his head. "Don't say Dean. I'm not going back to the bunker."

"Relax," Crowley quieted him with a gesture. "While you were out, I was considering other ways to control these attacks. Perhaps with magic."

"What, you mean like a seal?" Sam asked. Crowley nodded. "Is that possible?"

"I've seen magic do greater things. It's worth a shot."

"Okay. Would you do it? Do you even know what to do?"

Crowley thought for a moment, then shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid not. Perhaps...perhaps the demon tablet would have something? Did Kevin ever fully translate it?"

Sam was at once wary; he shrank back against the couch cushions. "I don't know that I'd be comfortable with you looking at that. Sorry," he added; his regret seemed genuine. Crowley sighed. "What about another way?"

"I don't know precisely what I'm dealing with here, Sam," Crowley insisted, his patience beginning to wane. "I can't just wave my hand and have it be all better. The trials have never been dealt with. Ever. I've been around for a very long time and I've yet to witness something like this. I wouldn't even know where to begin."

Sam was silent, his gaze distant. After a long pause, he looked up at Crowley. "And you really think the tablet would have something?"

"It's the only thing I can think of."

"What if I just got you a translation of that specific part, if it exists?"

"If it would make you feel better about sharing it with me, that would do just fine," Crowley replied. Sam nodded slowly.

"I'll call Kevin and see if he can find something on the tablet," Sam said, sitting up and reaching for his phone. Crowley waited while Sam made the call. Crowley noted that he conveniently left out Crowley's interest in the tablet's contents; had Kevin known, he would've denied Sam outright. In fact, Sam neglected to mention Crowley at all. The deception had begun.

"Thanks, Kevin. I really appreciate this." Sam hung up and looked over at Crowley. "He said he'd look and if he finds anything, he'll send a translation over with Garth."

"I noticed you didn't mention my involvement," Crowley remarked quietly. Sam shrugged.

"They don't have to know everything. Not yet, anyway. I don't like lying to them, but in this instance, it's necessary. They'll live. It's not the first time we've all lied to each other." He smirked, then sagged against the cushions, his anger deflating along with his energy levels. "Anyway, if Kevin can find something, at least I won't be half as useless."

"You Winchesters, always deprecating yourselves," Crowley said. "Must be a family trait."

Sam grinned tiredly. "Yeah, I think it is. Sorry for being so down; it must be annoying."

"I'm not exactly on cloud nine myself," Crowley reminded him. Sam averted his eyes, sheepish. "You don't have to apologise to me for being down is what I meant. Misery loves company, after all."

"I'd rather not be miserable. For once in my life, anyway," Sam lamented, leaning back and closing his eyes. "I had peace for awhile. At Stanford, then with Amelia. Between college and Amelia, though? Well," he shrugged half-heartedly, "you've read the books. You know the rest."

Crowley said nothing. When he'd first gone through the Carver Edlund books, he'd been looking for weaknesses. Now he felt if he took another turn with them, he'd view them differently. He only knew about Amelia because Sam had chosen to share that bit of information with him. It had struck him as strange that Sam would abandon his brother so easily; when he'd left them after Dick's demise, Sam had seemed lost. Crowley thought for certain he'd do anything to get Dean back. How tired of this life did Sam have to be to turn his back on his brother so completely?

"Speaking of rest," Crowley said, breaking the heavy silence, and standing. "You'd best think about getting some. Don't worry about me," he added when Sam started to speak. "I can entertain myself easily enough. If your Garth comes back, I won't touch the translation until you're awake."

"It's weird seeing you so agreeable," Sam remarked. "My instincts tell me it's a trick, that the second the translation gets here, you'll kill me and run off to do the usual." He regarded Crowley thoughtfully. "But I know that's wrong now, that you won't cut and run. And that's what's really weird."

Crowley's lips twitched into a slight smile. If Sam thought it was weird, imagine how he, himself, felt? "Just go to sleep, Sam," he replied, choosing to keep his own counsel. "There's time yet for you to recover."

"I don't think you really believe that, but..." Sam observed tiredly, giving into his exhaustion. He was out shortly after. Crowley remained on the coffee table for awhile, his mind a jumble of thoughts. If they could somehow cancel out the after-effects of the trials, they could begin planning their descent into Hell to fetch Murron's soul. Of course, he still wasn't entirely sure what he'd do once he got it. As Sam had stated, there was nothing here to chain her spirit to. Still, there had to be something.

He got up from the coffee table and did a short circuit of the room, fingers worrying at his bottom lip as he pondered. Perhaps there was something in the remains of the cottage. Something metallic that would have withstood the pyre. He glanced over at Sam. Would there be time to go to the old site, inspect it, then return before the other hunter arrived? He would just have to try and make his excuses later.

Crowley looked inwards, focusing on the green expanse of Murron's old cottage, feeling it, breathing it in. Then, he snapped his fingers and the world shifted.

A square patch of brilliant green grass and wildflowers met Crowley's gaze when he rematerialized. The spring air was heavy with their fragrance, drawing further memories to the front of Crowley's mind. It had been summer when Murron had died; the air had smelled of honeysuckles then. He'd burned those flowering vines along with the cottage and everything connected to that time in his life. Still, there might be something left, something that carried enough of Murron's energy that she might latch on in this world until he could discover a way to restore her completely.

The fireplace stood exactly as it had when the pyre had ceased. Abandoned birds' nests clogged the hearth even as climbing ivy hugged the crumbling brick column. Crowley went up to it and slid his hand across the dirty mantel, searching for something, anything, that could work. He came away with a filthy palm and not much else. He grimaced, wiped his hand on his trouser leg, and started searching the tall grasses with his eyes. Small clusters of brightly-colored flowers waved in the breezes, as if to beckon him to hidden treasures. It occurred to him then that Murron's remains had given life to these very blossoms and that something inside them recognised him.

Crowley knelt in the grass beside the smiling wildflowers and gently cupped one of the buds. Tears stung his eyes as he caressed the delicate petals, thinking of her skin beneath his fingertips. If he took some of these flowers back, could they be enough? It seemed like such a long shot he wilted as the idea faded away along with his hope.

"So, it is true. You have regained your humanity."

Crowley started, pivoting on his toes to look behind him. "Kali," he said, surprised. The Hindu goddess stood on the edge of the grassy patch, a solemn expression in her dark eyes. "What brings you here?"

"You do, I suppose," Kali replied, stepping onto the grass. She paused, her eyes closing, and nodded slowly. "Yes, she's still here. Her energy remains." She opened her eyes and looked down at Crowley. "But I suppose you've picked up on that already."

"Is it enough to bring her here? To chain her spirit to Earth?" Crowley asked, not caring if the goddess heard the desperate hope in his voice. Kali angled her head at him, her brow furrowing.

"You're looking to bring her out of Hell?" she asked.

"Yes. If I'm going to be made to live like this, I'm going to do it with her beside me," Crowley declared. "Now, tell me. Is it enough to hold her?"

Kali took another look about them. "It is possible. However," she added quickly when Crowley's face split into a grin of relief, "she would be chained here. Precisely here. She wouldn't be able to travel with you."

"That's a start. So long as she's where I can protect her, it's enough," Crowley said, rising eagerly. Kali stared at him again.

"This is very strange," she observed. "I knew you cared for her then, but witnessing it now is quite bizarre. What will you do with her spirit?"

"I hope to find a way to restore her to life," Crowley said. "It sounds impossible, I know, but if anyone could do it, it would be me." He started, a thought coming to him. He started towards Kali, one hand stretched out to her. "Could you do it? Could you restore her body from her ashes here?"

"Crowley, she is part of the Earth now. Not even I could bring her back from this level of transformation," Kali replied. "She may have to resort to possession."

Immediately, Crowley shook his head. "No. No, she'd never agree to that. It's either her body or nothing. You know how she is, as well as I do."

"There is another way," Kali ventured carefully. "But I don't think you want to hear it."

Crowley's expression fell as the full meaning of Kali's words dawned on him. "No," he said firmly, quietly. "I would never condemn her to that. She'd lose too much of herself. I'd lose her to the corruption of Hell. I can't do that, not to her."

"She would be with you, Crowley, in a physical body. Isn't that what you want?"

"Not if she has to become like me. No, I can't do it. I'll find another way if you won't help me," Crowley insisted hotly. He turned from the goddess, his mind racing. His hands moved through the air, as though he would grasp the solution. There had to be another way.

"There is a third option," Kali called out to him. Crowley turned back towards her expectantly. "He didn't want me to say anything, but," she moved further into the grass till she was in front of him. "There is someone who remains unaffected by Heaven. If you can convince him of your love for Murron and make him believe you've changed for the better, he might help you."

"You don't mean - ?" Crowley whispered, truly stunned Kali would offer such a precious piece of information. "He would never agree to do that for me. Not even if you asked him."

"Even I couldn't say what he would do. His unpredictability is one of his better traits. But if you can bring Murron here and secure her to this spot, I will request an audience. Be warned, though, Crowley. With Heaven empty and his brothers and sisters fell to Earth, he might not be ready to listen to a demon."

"If you can get me even five minutes with him, do it," Crowley said. "I would be in your debt for eternity."

At that, Kali smiled. "You already are. I'll just put this on your tab." She sobered. "How long before you go back into Hell for her soul?"

"Hopefully not too much longer. I know my time is short. There are those that would use her against me. I don't want to give them the chance."

"Then see that you act quickly," Kali advised. "And I will do what I can on my end."

"You have my thanks, Kali, as ever," Crowley said, grateful. They shared a long look, both conscious of this extreme shift in their acquaintance. Then, Kali stepped back from him and vanished in a haze of smoke. Crowley glanced up at the brightening sky, thought of Sam and the cabin, and disappeared as well.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Sam was just waking up when Crowley returned. Spying him out the corner of his eye, Sam twisted on the couch to follow Crowley's movements as he circled round and sat back down on the coffee table. "Did you go somewhere?" Sam asked amid a large yawn. His tone suggested he didn't suspect Crowley of anything, which put the demon at his ease.

"Yes. I did," Crowley replied. Sam, rubbing his left eye groggily, looked at him expectantly out the open one. "I was looking for something to chain Murron's spirit here. I went to the place where she died - where I'd burned her body. I found nothing, but learned she could be held there, at the site." He paused to swallow slowly. "We need that translation. I don't know how much time she has left without me there. Abaddon could still find her crypt."

"I wish I wasn't holding you back," Sam told him, his gaze lowering in shame. "I seem to be really good at that, though."

Crowley made a face. "Don't be stupid, Sam. You're not holding me back. If we must get into this, I'm the reason she's down there at all."

"But she willingly made the deal to sell her soul," Sam pointed out. "And I bet she doesn't think it was a waste of time. Not from what you've told me." He offered Crowley a half-hearted smile. "We're being pretty pathetic now, aren't we?"

Crowley snorted softly and shook his head. "Self-loathing has always been a strong suit of mine. I just developed ways of hiding it better."

"You have the advantage of time. I'm thinking I'll never get used to it. How did you find out you could chain Murron's spirit to the place of her death?" Sam asked.

"I told you of my association with Kali, yes?"

"Yeah. You said she helped you defeat a fallen angel. Was she there?"

"Yes. I don't know what brought her there, but she was able to tell me something rather interesting. Not just about Murron's spirit, but of how to bring her back to life. I couldn't believe it when she told me, but I think - I think there's one angel left on Earth that hasn't lost their Grace." Crowley paused and looked meaningfully at Sam. It took Sam a moment to catch on; when he did, his eyes doubled in size.

"No way. He died. Lucifer killed him. Gabriel can't be alive. Can he?" Sam ran a hand through his hair, his eyes shifting away from Crowley's. "If Gabriel's alive...oh wow. Is he with Kali or something?"

"That's what I'd gathered," Crowley replied with a shrug. "Regardless, she thinks I might be able to convince him to bring Murron back."

"You don't seem very confident about that," Sam observed. Crowley looked down at his hands. "I think you could do it. You convinced me and I've always been the one trying to kill you more than Dean. Gabriel's not unreasonable. He listened to me once."

Crowley said nothing to that and averted his eyes to stare blankly into the kitchenette. If demons had hated him, angels surely did, doubly so. He knew Gabriel to be a renegade from Heaven, but in the end, he'd still chosen to side with humanity; a demon asking him for a favor this immense would either insult him or be so laughingly impossible, he wouldn't give Crowley the time of day. He frowned. With humanity came doubt and he'd always hated to doubt. Yet, on the other side of that particular coin, with humanity came humility and Crowley felt he would have to shore up all the humility he still possessed to get what he wanted.

The sound of Sam's cellphone vibrating against the coffee table drew Crowley from his thoughts; he picked it up and passed it over to Sam, who answered. He glanced back at Crowley, his eyes revealing the caller's identity: it was Kevin. Sam listened intently, interjecting now and then, before hanging up and casting a relieved smile at Crowley.

"He found something," Sam declared. Crowley leaned in expectantly. "There was a - a kind of postscript on the angel tablet -"

"The angel tablet?" Crowley cut in, incredulous. Sam nodded and continued.

"Yeah, it was in someone else's handwriting . Garth's coming by tonight with it. Only," he added, shifting to sit further up on the couch, "Kevin said he couldn't translate it into English. Apparently, it was written in Enochian; Kevin doesn't speak Enochian so it's all we're getting."

"That's not a problem," Crowley assured him casually. "I can speak and read Enochian fluently."

Sam made his little wondering noise. "Yeah, but what if it isn't a reverse spell and just a message?"

"Let's not worry about that. Obviously, your prophet felt it was significant or else he wouldn't be bringing it over at all."

"I guess you're right. Still, I hope whatever it is can help. I'm getting really tired of being tired. And useless," Sam added quietly. Crowley could only offer the other an uncertain smile as silence fell between them. Presently, Sam said, "You might wanna go back into the room, if only to pretend you're still trapped. Garth might know about our plan to go into Hell, but he doesn't need to know you're out yet. He thinks I'll be doing it after I'm well enough to take you down if you get difficult."

"A fair point. The truth will out itself in due course, but for now, further deception is probably best." Crowley rose from the coffee table and headed for the Trap room. The Trap was, of course, still broken and the wards had long been removed; still, he wasn't keen on going near it again, a reluctance which showed when he paused before the door. He glanced back at Sam, who was staring at him curiously. Crowley gestured towards the room. "Just not keen on the Trap, is all. I'll sit around it." With that self-assurance, he went inside, shutting the door behind him.

It wasn't until close to midnight when Garth arrived to deliver the Enochian message. Fortunately, the other hunter was in something of a hurry and had only agreed to be the messenger as it was on the way to another job; otherwise, Dean would have had to halt his search for Castiel and delivered it himself. Crowley mutely thanked everything for the stroke of luck. If it had been Dean, it would have been harder to pass off the illusion of still being contained. Garth lacked that degree of suspicion and took it at face value that Crowley remained trapped.

When Garth left, Crowley came out to find Sam squinting at a single leaf of yellow paper. As he approached the couch, he held out of his hand. "Give it here. Won't take me but a moment to translate." Sam passed the sheet to him and waited while Crowley scanned the message. "I'll be damned," he muttered.

"What's it say?"

Crowley lowered the paper, a crooked smile on his face. "It's a spell. You have to do the exact opposite of the trials in order to reverse them."

Sam blinked in confusion. "What, do I have to bring a hellhound back to life and put an innocent soul in Hell?"

"And potentially create a demon, yes," Crowley replied. When Sam continued to look at him, bewildered, Crowley sat down on the coffee table again. "Look, all of this can be done fairly simply. However, it might mean we have to go into Hell before you're ready; are you comfortable with that?"

"Even if I was, how the hell do you make a hellhound? And I could never condemn a soul to Hell and then torture it to make it a demon!" Sam cried. "I just can't do that."

"It's either this or the trials remain in your system," Crowley informed him quietly. "It's your choice, of course. However," he added, leaning in and speaking softly, "you have the distinct advantage in this case: me. I can help you with these things and do what I can to make it less...painful for you. It's the least I could do for your agreeing to help me get Murron out."

Sam seemed to consider this. He was quiet for a long time; then he sighed heavily and turned resigned eyes to Crowley. "How do we make a hellhound?"

Hellhound breeding was a very specialised procedure and required a certain kind of demon to do it. But before they could even begin to create a new hound, the acquisition of a dog's soul must be made. What more, it couldn't just be any dog's soul: it must be one that endured a level of abuse in its lifetime. This twisted the soul as surely as torture did to human souls in Hell. Once the appropriate soul had been acquired - usually through a series of black market dealings with Reapers specific to the collection of animal souls - it was then literally fed to the originator: Cerberus. This in turn allowed for the great three-headed beast to 'birth' a new hellhound that would later be tied to either a pack or a crossroads demon.

In Crowley's case, the soul used to make his own pup had not endured abuse in life, but had come from a household immersed in evil just the same. This particular soul had been chosen for multiple reasons, one of which would allow for it be just as vicious as the rest, but still capable of absolute loyalty to a monster. That last bit was especially important to Crowley as he felt the King of the Crossroads deserved no less. The breeder chosen to create his hound had been killed after to ensure no one else could have one so large. It was a source of pride that his hound should be so massive and imposing. He'd had the pleasure of his hound's company for only a handful of decades before the trials had taken him away. And though he still missed his pup considerably, he refused to let that color his decision to help Sam reverse the trials.

The first step would be to get in touch with a Reaper. This, of course, was easier said than done as many of the rogue Reapers had blacklisted Crowley and the Winchesters from their client lists. Sam refused to kill a dog, bad-tempered or not, just so Crowley could harness its soul and Crowley couldn't do it himself or it wouldn't work. They were left to their own devices as to how to contact a beast Reaper. As they were debating how to do that, an idea came to Crowley, which he presented to Sam.

"I don't think I could go to a kill shelter," Sam remarked, clearly put off by the suggestion. "I love dogs too much."

"Then I'll go. You can't see them, anyway. Reapers, that is. Beast Reapers are less particular than their human counterparts; they won't have crossed me off their list of potentials. Besides, they're accustomed to dealing with demons. I can have the soul in hand in no time and with no emotional damage to you."

"Until we have to take it to Hell, that is," Sam muttered. "And after that? Condeming an innocent to Hell? I almost want to try and fight through the trials."

"You'd never last and you know it, mate," Crowley pointed out. "This is your only real chance. I'd rather not have you risking more than you're already doing by going into Hell still plagued."

"I appreciate the concern, but it's just too awful," Sam said, sinking into the sofa cushions. Crowley pressed his lips together, fighting for patience. His understanding was limited even with his humanity. He would have to prod Sam into action somehow.

"You felt zero regret when you killed my dog," the demon remarked quietly after a moment. Sam's eyes turned quickly to look at Crowley. "It's true. You've killed before; this isn't that different."

"Yeah, but..." Sam began, then sighed, covering his face with both hands. "All right, all right. I'll stomach it, but only because it's a means to an end. I just don't see how we'll be able to stay in Hell long enough to turn someone into a demon, even halfway."

"One step at a time. First, I'll collect the dog's soul and bring it back here. Then we'll go downstairs and pay Mama Cerberus a visit." Crowley rose from the coffee table, glancing back at Sam with a confident smirk. "Don't wait up," he joked, then blinked out of sight.

The shelter was dark and quiet as the employees had left for the day. Crowley walked through the rear kennels, sizing up the dogs in the enclosures as if trying to discern which it would be. He was just passing the last row when a small whine drew his attention. Turning, Crowley's eyes landed on the sad face of a German shepherd. It was standing in its pen, tail wagging, its front paws shifting as it moved about eagerly. Normally dogs disliked demons or anything supernatural; it was only because most of them were asleep that he wasn't currently being bombarded with raucous barking. This particular dog, however, seemed almost _happy _to see him.

"Hello, boy," Crowley greeted softly, approaching the dog's pen and offering his hand. The shepherd licked Crowley's fingers carefully, then whined again, pawing the ground. "Are you it, I wonder? You don't seem mean enough to be a hellhound." The dog took another few swipes at Crowley's fingers with his tongue and walked into the chainlink door, as if trying to push out of the pen. Crowley snapped the fingers of his free hand and the door opened.

The shepherd trotted out, circled Crowley, then gave a single sharp bark. Crowley stared down at him, puzzled, then noticed the dog was looking beyond him towards the kennel door. Looking up, Crowley saw they were no longer alone. A Beast Reaper stood at the end of the narrow room, eyeing both demon and dog curiously. Beast Reapers were a decidedly more brutish breed than their human Reaper counterparts; this one was no exception. He was large, dressed in normal blue jeans and button-down work shirt with a ball cap slung low over an impressive brow.

"Browsing?" the Beast Reaper inquired gruffly, nodding towards the shepherd. Before Crowley could respond, the other's eyes narrowed considerably. "Ah. I know you. Crowley, the displaced King of Hell. You lonely, is that why you're out here looking for a dog?"

"As a matter of fact, I am looking for a dog, but not because I'm lonely, as you put it," Crowley replied coolly. "I've come to buy a soul."

"That's right. The boy got your hound. My condolences. Looking to make a new one?"

"For the sake of keeping things simple, we'll say yes. I am looking for a replacement. Which is it? Who are you here for?"

The Beast Reaper turned his head and spat briskly into the corner. "That one right there," he replied, jerking his chin towards the shepherd at Crowley's side. Crowley looked down, his brow furrowing. "Don't be decieved. This one's a monster. He's maimed multiple victims, which is why he's here."

"This one?" Crowley repeated, pointing down at the dog. "Be sensible. This one couldn't hurt a fly!"

"And he didn't. He hurt kids. Lots of 'em. Previous owner never kept him on a leash and well, kids are kids and will do dumb shit."

"Are you suggesting he was provoked?"

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting. Killler here was teased mercilessly by those kids. You ask me? They got what was coming to them."

Crowley made a curious noise and looked down at the dog again. Perhaps he would have himself a replacement hound after all. He rather liked German shepherds; his own hound had been one and a famous one at that. With the right breeding, this one could easily surpass the original. "How much for this one?" he asked the Reaper. The Beast Reaper shrugged.

"You haven't much to your name now, do you?" the Reaper remarked.

"Regrettably, no. However, that's never stopped me before. Name your price, Reaper, and I will meet it."

"You should know, this one is slated to go to a very specific client."

"Who?"

"Abaddon."

Immediately, Crowley's expression darkened. "Why this one specifically?" he asked in a low voice.

"I don't ask those kind of questions. I just do my job and deliver the goods."

"Well, she can't have him. I want it. Regardless of what has happened recently, I am still King of Hell. I surpass her no matter what she says. Now. Name your price."

The Reaper was silent for a moment. He seemed to be considering his price; his eyes darted around the small room, his mind working. Finally, he looked back up at Crowley. "If I give you this soul and you manage to turn it into a hound, I don't want to be in Abaddon's way when she discovers what I've done. If you can get him past her, then I only ask that you set him on me. I'd rather be torn to shreds by one of my own souls than suffer her wrath."

"Done."

"Then I wish you all the luck in the universe," the Reaper said. "Because you'll need it." He approached the shepherd, stroked the dog's smooth head, then passed his hand over the animal's eyes. In another second, the dog fell to the floor, lifeless. The shining orb of his soul burned in the Reaper's cupped hand, which he presented to Crowley. "Just remember our deal, demon king. Don't leave me to that bitch."

Crowley took the soul from the Reaper's hand, his fist closing around it securely. "You have my word, Reaper. When he becomes my new hound, you'll be his first victim."

The Beast Reaper stepped back with a brisk nod, then vanished. Crowley calmly absorbed the dog's soul into himself and departed the kennel as well.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

With the first part of the reverse trials in hand, they began to consider what could be done to achieve the second part. This seemed to sit the least comfortably with Sam, as he believed he would have to commit murder to get the soul. As much as Crowley hated to own it, he knew Sam was right. Sold souls were automatically damned; even if he'd wanted to attempt to secure a soul through a deal, it wouldn't work. No, it had to be a complete innocent. Sam would have to take a life.

Or would he?

"Sam, I have an idea," Crowley said, breaking the silence that had hung over them since his return from the kennels. Sam, stretched out on the sofa as usual, angled his head to look up at him. "You might not like it since it involves a little...tweaking."

"What kind of tweaking?"

Crowley gestured to the space below his collar and shoulder. "You need to break your anti-possession tattoo."

Immediately, Sam was upright, his eyes wide. "And why would I do that?"

"So I could take over and commit the murder for you. It should work; it'd still be you doing it, technically. Only I don't mind killing. It doesn't bother me."

Sam shook his head quickly. "No, it's too risky. I trust you to help me, but I don't think I could trust you in here." He tapped his temple. "Besides, being possessed is really unpleasant. Meg rode me for awhile and it was like I was suffocating. No, I can't do that again. I'll just have to suck it up and do the job."

"Sam, be reasonable: you know full well you'd never be able to do it without hating yourself afterwards. At least with my way you'd be free of that guilt and we could move on," Crowley pressed. Time was running out; the soul inside him would only keep for a little while longer. And Murron...he didn't want to think about what could be happening to her. "Please, Sam. If we do it my way, it'll be over that much quicker. I promise only to ride you long enough to get the job done, then you're free."

"I still don't know. Breaking my tattoo - how would I explain that to Dean?" Sam's voice was full of anxiety, as though he were still afraid to disappoint his older brother. "Also, the original trials had to be done in order, not all at once. I don't think even if we did have the innocent's soul it'd work if we tried to do everything at the same time."

Crowley couldn't think of a counter for that; his knowledge of the trials was limited. He would have to take Sam's word for it. "All right. I only hope you can withstand multiple trips downstairs."

"Gonna have to, right?" Sam remarked grimly. He sighed, shifting further down as if settling in for a nap. "Guess you're all gung-ho to get back there?" he asked, glancing up at Crowley. Crowley echoed the hunter's sigh and nodded slowly.

"This soul won't keep for long and time is growing shorter and shorter the longer we linger here," he said. "The time to act has to be now. I'm sorry, Sam, I know you're tired, but this is as much for you as it is for me."

"I know. How long does it usually take to make a hellhound?"

"Depends on the breeder. Sometimes it's fast, other times, not so much."

"We'll have to stay down there until it's done, won't we?"

"Yes."

"And that's going to be dangerous."

"Yes."

Sam was silent. His mouth worked as though chewing on his thoughts, his brows repeatedly drawing together over the spiral crease between them. At length, he grimaced, sighed again, and threw up one hand in defeat. "Then I guess we'd better get going," he said, resigned.

"I am sorry, Sam," Crowley said as he helped the other get up and on his feet. Sam leaned on Crowley's shoulder with one hand, his knees shaking a bit. "Just hold onto me and I'll get us there safe and sound." Sam said nothing, his grip tightening on Crowley as the room vanished around them.

Crowley felt the immediate difference when they descended into Hell. He'd only been absent maybe a month and already things had changed. It felt remarkably like it had after Lucifer's second fall. The order he'd fought so hard to create and maintain had been effectively smashed. Automatically, Crowley blamed Abaddon; she'd always been a destructive force in Lucifer's legion and now that Hell was once again leaderless, she undoubtedly took the chance to reinstate chaos once more.

At his side, Sam looked around. "Where are we?"

"Outside of Murron's crypt. It's the only safe place for us right now," Crowley replied, turning them slowly towards a building behind them. The crypt had been built shortly after Murron had died, its exterior modeled after the Grecian temples of old. It was far more elaborate than she would have chosen for herself, but Crowley couldn't imagine entombing her in anything less. It's imposing facade had the intended effect, for Sam couldn't stop gazing up at it as they carefully climbed the low stairs leading to the main doors.

The interior of the tomb was characteristically cold; Crowley felt Sam shiver beside him. He snapped his fingers, causing the wall torches to ignite and provide a measure of warmth. As they progressed to the crypt proper, the air began to warm up and Sam was able to step a bit away from Crowley. He continued to glance this way and that. "This place is amazing," he breathed.

"Nothing but the best for what matters," Crowley replied briskly. "You can take the tour later." He was impatient to reach the crypt. Murron's soul should still be resting within; his heart thundered inside his chest at the prospect of seeing her again.

Finally, they reached the crypt room. The double doors leading to it were richly engraved, with a scene depicting the descent of Persephone into Hell to be with Hades. Crowley caressed the image briefly, pushed the doors open to reveal a wide, high-ceiling'd chamber. In the center was a depression where a stone dais stood, the glass coffin he'd entombed Murron's soul on top of it. With another snap, the torches flared to life, casting amber light over the various treasures along the walls.

Crowley's eyes fell to the coffin where Murron's soul continued to sleep peacefully. Tears made their way down his cheeks as he approached it, hands extended as though he would take her into his arms. He pressed his palms against the faceted surface of the coffin, his face bending over hers. "Hello, darling," he whispered, gliding his fingers across the lid above her sleeping face. "I'm home." His voice tightened in his throat, long-supressed emotions beginning to overtake him.

Sam came up behind him. "Is that Murron?" he asked quietly. Crowley nodded, fingertips tracing the outline of her face. "She's beautiful, Crowley."

Crowley said nothing, his voice still failing him. Yes, she was beautiful. Her soul was the purest thing in this dungeon of blood, bone, and ash. He made sure it remained that way by keeping her encased like this. The influence of Hell would never touch her, not so long as he kept her separate from it. And when he brought her back to Earth, she would always be free, he would see to that.

"Can she come out of there?" Sam asked after a long silence. Crowley blinked on tears and glanced over his shoulder at the hunter. "I mean, souls can walk around in Hell normally, right?"

"Of course," Crowley replied hoarsely. He cleared his throat, continuing, "I just don't want her affected by Hell until the last minute. I want to release her, I truly do, but not yet." He turned back to gaze down at her. "No, not yet. But soon. Soon she'll be free." The desire to touch her, even for a moment, burned inside him, but he resisted. There was much still to be done before he could free her soul. Instead, his fingers curled against the coffin lid till his knuckles grew white. With great reluctance, he stepped away from the coffin and turned to face Sam. "We should get this soul to the breeders; it hasn't much time left."

"Lead the way," Sam replied, moving aside so Crowley could walk ahead of him. They departed the crypt, the torches extinguishing in their wake. The journey to Cerberus' pen would be rough, especially on the weakened Sam. Crowley was confident he could keep them safe as his powers had remained unaffected by the half-cure. He could easily transport them to the pens with a single thought, but demonic teleportation was harder on humans than angelic. He didn't want to risk making Sam worse. On foot it would have to be.

Cerberus dwelt in the Third Circle, which was a fair hike from Murron's crypt. The crypt lay just beyond the City of Dis' crumbling stone wall, off the beaten path, as it were. To reach the Third Circle, they would have to traverse through Dis, cross the Styx, then move through Circles Five and Four. They could expect to encounter many demons along the way, as well as the pair of fallen angels who guarded the entrance to Dis. Of the demons Crowley bore no concern; the angels, however, might require a bit more persuasion.

Crowley put out an arm, stopping Sam. "I forgot something in the crypt. Stay here, I won't be but a minute," he said, popping out before Sam could respond. He reappeared in the center of the crypt, cast a quick look around, spied what he'd been looking for, and grabbed it before returning to Sam's side.

When he presented an angel blade to the hunter, Sam accepted it with a puzzled look. "Why do we need these?"

"Because there's angels guarding the gates to Dis," Crowley replied. He looked at Sam curiously. "Smart kid like you never read The Inferno?"

"I did, but I honestly didn't think Hell really worked like that," Sam admitted. "Are they really circles?"

"In a sense. The regions definitely expand like circles, hence the name. But they're not obvious circles, like you couldn't look at one and go 'That's a circle'. Get me?" Crowley explained. Sam considered this explanation, then nodded cautiously. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is reaching the pen before this soul expires." He patted his chest briefly.

"Can't you just, I dunno, let it out?" Sam asked as they began walking towards the city wall. Crowley shook his head.

"It's not that simple. I'll also not risk someone else claiming the soul for themselves. I might have neglected to mention its importance."

"Aside from being part of the spell, you mean?"

"Yes. Apparently, Abaddon was shopping for a new hound. This one." He patted his chest again. "I don't know why this one specifically; the Reaper wasn't forthcoming with the reasoning. Claimed ignorance, which I can half-believe. Of course once I heard that, I had to have it even more."

"You make it sound like you want to _keep _it for yourself," Sam observed. When crowley gave him a meaningful glance, Sam grimaced. "You do want to keep it."

"Yes. What kind of crossroads demon am I if I don't have a dog?" Crowley returned matter-of-factly. "And if it's a kick in the teeth to Abaddon, all the better."

"I guess having a hellhound around wouldn't be so bad," Sam admitted reluctantly. "Least for you when you get Murron back topside."

"Precisely. Murron liked my first one. I'm sure she'll like this one, too."

The pair fell silent as they continued moving towards Dis. There was a strong possibility they would have to kill the angel guards, which would definitely attract attention. In truth, Crowley was surprised - and a little suspicious - that Abaddon hadn't felt him entering Hell. Briefly, he wondered if she'd been tracking him this entire time and now knew the location of Murron's crypt. The urge to pop back and check on her was strong, almost too strong. She was all he had now; he would protect it as surely as his own life. Losing her would mean losing everything that mattered to him now or that would ever matter.

"You're tense," Sam's words broke into his thoughts. Crowley glanced up at him.

"How can you tell?"

"Because you're going to snap your angel blade in half if you hold onto it any tighter."

Crowley smirked and loosened his hold slightly. "I was just thinking, wondering why Abaddon hasn't sent anyone after us. I know she knows I'm here; so where's the welcoming party?" He spread his hands and did a half-turn to encompass the surrounding landscape.

"I don't know. I was thinking the same thing," Sam replied quietly, looking around as well. "When I came down here to get Bobby's soul, there were demons everywhere."

"I ran a tighter ship," Crowley said proudly. "Abaddon is sloppy. That's a chaos demon for you." He paused and pointed. "There's the city wall. You up for this?"

"No choice, really," Sam swallowed hard, gripping his blade more firmly. "I'll try to provide back-up if nothing else."

"I am curious about something before we go any further," Crowley turned towards Sam, a wondering expression on his face. Sam waited. "Can you still use demon blood effectively?"

Sam's face paled more than usual. "You're asking me if I still have my powers?" Crowley nodded. "I don't know. I haven't touched demon blood since the Apocalypse. Why?" Before Crowley could respond, Sam's jaw clenched and he shook his head vigorously. "No, I'm not doing that. I'm too unpredictable. It's not the same anymore. I don't have anyone keeping me in check."

"You mean Dean? If I recall, Dean called you a monster. I can keep you in check easily." Crowley rolled up his sleeve and put the blade to his skin, his gaze shifting to look Sam in the eyes. "It's your call, mate. You can either be useful or be a liability."

"Don't try to manipulate me, Crowley," Sam said warningly. Crowley smirked.

"I'm not manipulating you. I'm telling you like it is. Besides, as you said, you don't know if it'll even work. So where's the harm in trying?"

Sam stared hard at Crowley, the muscles in his jaw working. Crowley could see the conflict raging behind the hunter's eyes; he was seriously considering it. The desire to be useful was winning out. Finally, he nodded slowly and drew closer to Crowley. Without a word, Crowley cut into his forearm, wincing as the wound began to spark with orange light. When enough blood had been drawn, he held his arm out to Sam. Sam looked at him again, his cheeks reddening. Crowley returned the look pointedly, as if suggesting that he not be squeamish now. With an indignant grunt, Sam took hold of Crowley's arm and bent his lips to the bleeding wound.

After a moment, he drew away with a sour expression, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned away. Crowley calmly healed himself and righted his shirtsleeve. Sam's sudden convulsion shattered that calm and Crowley rounded the hunter to look into his face. "Sam?"

Sam coughed in response, his hand still over his mouth. His eyes were squeezed shut as if in pain, eventually forcing itself out of him in a strangled cry of alarm. He stumbled, falling to one knee as the cry deepened into a roar. It occurred to Crowley then that his blood was easily the strongest Sam had ever ingested. Shortly, Sam blew out a harsh breath, seeming to calm, and drew himself up again. A measure of strength returned to his face as he looked down at Crowley, his hands curling into fists.

"Let's go."

The angels patrolling the gates each carried a weapon; the right held a sword, while the left bore a spear. Their wings, visible in the Netherworld, were stark black against the crumbling bone of the city wall. They paced before the gate, weapons held at the ready, though it was rare for anyone but demons to cross the threshold into Dis.

High above on an outcropping, Crowley and Sam crouched to survey the situation. There appeared to be no other demons along the wall or around it; the angels were alone. This made things both difficult and simple: difficult as Abaddon would surely feel such powerful guardians as these falling; simple because there were only two and both intruders were armed securely.

"We should just take them," Sam growled beside Crowley. Crowley looked at him sidelong, genuinely impressed. "C'mon, it wouldn't be hard at all!"

"I admire your enthusiasm, Sam, but a measure of caution is never a bad thing," Crowley advised him. Demon blood turned him into a beast, Crowley realised with some satisfaction. His blood surely made him even moreso. It would be interesting to see where this would take them. "Right or left?" he asked casually.

Sam lifted his blade. "Right's good for me."

"Excellent. I always did prefer the left-hand path," Crowley grinned, standing and starting down the cliff path towards the gates. Sam lumbered after him like a charging bull, eventually overtaking him and reaching the gates first. The angels looked up sharply at the approaching human, their weapons coming up to deflect Sam's first blow. Sam, towering over the right guard, overpowered him quickly, bringing his blade down into the angel's throat. The left guard tried to react, only to be overtaken by Crowley behind him. He drove the angel sword deep into the guard's back, sending it clean through his torso to pierce his heart. Both guards' bodies dropped with hollow thuds. Crowley couldn't help giving a howl of triumph as he looked up at Sam.

"Good job, kid!" he cried, wiping the blade off on one of the angel's wings. Then, almost as an afterthought, he bent and tore out a handful of feathers. He threw all but one away, tucking it into his inner pocket like a trophy. Sam ignored the fallen guards, his attention shifting to the plain beyond the gates.

"Company," he said tightly, crouching into a defensive position and bringing his blade up again. Crowley followed his gaze: sure enough, a small cluster of demons were coming for them. None were armed, not that it mattered; the death of the city's guardians had drawn more than enough attention to them.

Their hands came up in unison, sending a double blast of telekinetic energy at the approaching demons. They scattered like bowling pins, some falling off the narrow cliff path to plummet into the Abyss. The few that managed to dodge came down on them like wild dogs. Sam batted them away easily, hurling one into the pit behind them and snapping the neck of another. Crowley crushed the hearts of both his attackers with a single gesture, grinning maliciously as they fell at his feet.

"Come on, it won't be long before more arrive," Crowley said, stepping over the bodies and heading into the city. Sam hastened after him, seemingly eager to continue the fight. Good. He'd need that bloodlust in order to survive. It was still a long way yet to Cerberus' pen.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The thick mire of souls and blood that was the Styx stretched out before them like an inky ribbon. All around them were the moans of the figures sloughing through the muck, cast-offs of the Circle before it. The pair stopped on the rocky shore; Crowley gestured towards the expanse of the river with his sword.

"We need to get across. Charon might have been ordered to refuse me passage," he remarked. Sam cast a quick look around.

"If we can't get across the normal way, is swimming possible?" he asked. Crowley gave him an incredulous look. "What about just teleporting, then?"

"Could do that. Only..."

"Only what?"

"Not sure if it works that way," Crowley finished, biting his bottom lip thoughtfully.

"Why wouldn't it?"

"There are rules, Sam, even here in Hell. To get across the Styx, you need a boat. Only souls swim in the river. Besides, you would not want to go into that, trust me." Crowley prodded a stagnant pool of the river water with the tip of his blade. It stuck to the shining metal when he drew it away, as viscous as mucous and twice as clingy. He shook the blade briskly, grimacing when it refused to dislodge. "See?"

"Yeah, that is pretty gross. Scratch that idea, then. Try summoning the boat; it might work."

Crowley turned his gaze towards the river and, speaking in a commanding tone, called out across the water. "Charon! This is your king; I demand you show yourself and ferry me across the River of Souls!"

They waited. Shortly, a murky image of a small wherry appeared on the horizon, slowly making its way to the shore. The boat's ferryman was a skeletal man in a dingy brown robe, the hood pulled over to conceal all but below his nose. His mouth was drawn, heavy with sagging jowls, the lips dry and cracked. The barest hint of a grey beard clung to the man's chin like tufts of wiry cotton. The hands that curled around the pole were gnarled and arthritic. The wherry paused on the shore when the bow brushed against it and Charon turned his head towards them. "I am here, my king, my liege," he intoned.

"Good to know you still know who's in charge, Ferryman," Crowley remarked loftily, climbing into the boat. Sam followed after. Charon turned his cowled head to Sam; one hand released the pole to extend towards him, the palm turned upwards. Sam glanced down at the proffered hand, then looked at Crowley. Crowley gave Charon a hard stare, forcing the ferryman to lower his hand and push off into the water.

The journey across the river was quiet save for the souls that clung to the prow. Sam moved further into the boat, staring down at them in disgust. Crowley chuckled softly under his breath. Hell was not for the squeamish. He snapped his fingers and the moaning souls fell away from the boat. Their bodies drew below the surface of the murky water, swept beneath the belly of the wherry. They rolled over them, the muted thuds of their heads striking the boat creating a sickening score to the remainder of their journey.

Charon drew the wherry up to the opposite shore and they got out. The Ferryman pushed away as they began their ascent up the slope of the rocky beach. Sam happened to look to the right and asked, "What's that?"

Crowley followed his pointing finger. "It's a lighthouse," he replied simply. The structure Sam referred to was, more or less, that, with its twin fires burning at the summit. It was nothing more than a crumbling stone pillar with a hollowed center. The fires burned eternally, though just what they beckoned to the shore was a mystery. "Nevermind the decor; we've still got two Circles to go before we reach Cerberus."

"Right," Sam muttered absently as he began to follow Crowley further up the bank. However, it was proving difficult to keep pace for him; Crowley heard him stumble a few times and was forced to stop. Sam looked up at him apologetically. "It's the demon blood. I think I'm, uhm, low."

"You need more?" Crowley offered, making ready to pull up his sleeve again. Sam lifted a hand shakily.

"Not just yet. If we come up against other demons, then I'll take more. Right now, I think it's pretty calm, right?"

"This is where the wrathful come," Crowley pointed out. "Souls can hurt you as surely as demons. You're better off remaining charged." He held out his arm again. "You're not hurting me by taking it."

"I know I'm not. I'm just worried I'll hurt myself if I get into the habit again," Sam replied, pausing to lean against a rock. "Detoxing from demon blood is really, really painful. I don't want to go through it again."

"I wouldn't know," Crowley admitted, moving to stand beside him. "It's only for this, I promise. I'm sure once we get the soul to Cerberus and finish that bit, you'll start to feel better. Yeah?" He put a hand on Sam's shoulder and offered an encouraging smile. To his surprise, Sam returned it, albeit a bit weakly. "You'll get through this," he repeated quietly.

"Yeah," Sam murmured, looking away. "Yeah, I know I will."

"So, buck up," Crowley said, giving Sam's shoulder a little shake. "Miles to go before we sleep."

"Always is," Sam sighed and stood again. They resumed their journey in silence.

The progression through the Fifth Circle was slow as many of their pathways were clogged with the slumped bodies of souls who'd given up. These Crowley kicked aside when they fell in the way. Sam stepped over them, still too weakened by Crowley's blood making its way out of his system. Many of them moved of their own accord once they realised who was among them. Even with his displacement, Crowley's influence remained. It suggested that Abaddon had left the throne empty or at least had failed to try and claim it. Good. There might come a time, when all of this was over, that he would return and assume his rightful post. And he would have his Persephone, his mad maiden who gave everything for her demon lover.

The prospect of sharing power hadn't been something he'd ever considered before. During his first year's reign, he'd forgotten about Murron, blocking out all weakness that would have prevented his ascent. Now, he wondered if such a thing wouldn't be possible, if she would even agree to assuming such a high position. Part of him believed she would not, despite being a forthright and noble individual, she never once sought to hoist herself above others. Her innate need for fairness had often confused him; now he felt he could understand her motives. Naturally she would want to be the woman behind the strong man: it was in her nature. It had stroked his ego on more than one account. If he had her at his side now, he would almost have to insist on bringing her into the foreground.

It amused Crowley how frequently he found himself paired with those who viewed themselves in such dim lights. Even Sam counted among these. He glanced over his shoulder at the hunter, noting his drawn face and how the dark circles under his eyes had deepened further thanks to the detoxing. Even when Sam had been trying to kill him at every available turn, he'd had a respect for the boy. Had Lucifer had his way, Sam would have been the King of Hell and not Crowley. Of course, it wouldn't have been Sam, but just his face with Lucifer's Grace crammed inside. The packaging would have been different, but the contents would have been the same, and Crowley would have either found himself in a cell or worse, entirely eliminated. The fact Sam had managed to push Lucifer down had earned Crowley's respect almost immediately. Someone of that strength was to be feared, which had led to Crowley's marked improvement at avoiding the Winchesters.

Only now Sam was on his side. Or was he on Sam's side? The lines were beginning to blur between the demon and the hunter; perhaps they always had. Sam had always belonged, in some way, to Hell and its denizens. Perhaps it only made sense that they were working together now. Dean had always been Heaven's favorite; Sam was theirs. Good, Crowley thought with an appreciative nod. He infinitely preferred one over the other.

Sam coughed suddenly, causing Crowley to turn in time to see him fall to one knee. He continued to cough violently into his hand; when he pulled it away, blood speckled his palm. He frowned in confusion at the sight, his gaze lifting when Crowley approached him. He drew out his silk handkerchief and calmly swept the blood from Sam's open hand. The gesture was remarkably paternal and for a moment, Crowley wondered at his actions. "It hardly seems fair, doesn't it?" he asked softly, absently, as he continued to dab at Sam's hand. "Your blood cures me; my blood poisons you."

Sam said nothing as Crowley finished and tucked his handkerchief away in his breast pocket. Sam closed his hand into a loose fist and made to stand. Crowley supported him at the elbow, his last words hanging in the air between them. The demon king shifted his gaze briefly to Sam's and murmured, "We should keep moving. Our luck won't hold out for long, not after Dis."

"Have you always been this way?" Sam asked suddenly. Crowley eyed him, puzzled. "You're...you're being _nice_ to me. Why?"

"I really couldn't say, Sam," Crowley admitted after a moment's consideration. "Suffice it to say, it's your handiwork that has encouraged this change. Or perhaps it's always been there, brought on by Murron's kindness. She really was kind to me, even when I wasn't always so gracious to her." His voice died away as his throat constricted painfully. "Maybe I want to return the favor somehow now. And next to her, you're the only one on my side right now. That matters, even to a demon like me."

"So, what you said in the church about wanting to be loved? That wasn't just something said under duress?" Sam asked.

"Half and half, perhaps," Crowley replied absently. "Does it matter?"

"No, I guess not." Sam sighed softly, then gave a tight smile. "Thank you."

Crowley returned the uncertain smile, then gave Sam's sleeve a gentle tug. "C'mon. We're nearly through this Circle. One more and we'll be at the breeder pen."

They moved through the Fifth Circle with minimal difficulty and finally came upon the Fourth. Here they found fewer visible souls, as many of them were piled in crevasses along the path. They ignored Crowley and Sam as they continued on. Moving through Hell on foot was something Crowley couldn't consciously remember ever doing; it was long, tiresome, and impossibly filthy. These were the things he governed, the monetary system of the Underworld in all its bloodstained glory. If it weren't for the demons making themselves useful, he would have abandoned the whole thing long ago.

As they passed beneath an outcropping, a small avalanche of tiny rocks rattled down. Immediately, both were on their guard, their eyes searching the area above them for enemy demons. Sure enough, a group of six were hanging over the cliff edge, sneering with black eyes and bared teeth.

There was no time to give Sam dose of blood; they would have to fend them off the old-fashioned way. Crowley lifted two of them with a gesture and hurled them away. The fewer the better; Sam wouldn't be able to last long against a physical attack. A brilliant flash of orange light to his left told him Sam had managed to take one out. The grunt that followed forced the demon king to spin around and quickly assume a defensive stance in front of the fallen hunter.

"What's this?" one of the remaining demons scoffed. "Found yourself a new friend, eh, Lucky?"

"New friend nothing!" another rejoined with a cruel laugh. "Bitchboy is more like it! Only I think we both know which one is the bottom!"

"I see your new whore of a mistress has given you louts false courage," Crowley returned smoothly, his blade spinning between his fingers. Behind him, he could feel Sam struggling to rise again. "Messing with me right now probably isn't in your best interest, boys."

"Yeah? Why's that, Lucky?"

"Because I brought my moose," Crowley grinned. In the next second, he'd cut his free hand with the blade, sending his blood spilling across the rock. He thrust his bleeding hand behind him, his grin turning deadly when he felt Sam's mouth on the wound. The remaining demons took a step back as Sam rose like an avenging angel behind Crowley, his mouth stained with the demon's blood.

"What the fu-" one of the demons managed before they were gibbed from the head down. The explosion of gore and blood struck both Crowley and Sam bodily; neither reacted beyond to step over the mess and move on.

With the possibility of other ambushes, Sam took to refueling on Crowley's blood at intervals to remain in fighting form. His previous hesitation had been all but entirely erased, a fact which pleased Crowley. So long as he kept it up, they would get through these trials and be that one step closer to recovering Murron from Hell.

The Fourth Circle presented fewer obstacles the further in they went. This would have normally left Crowley cocky, but given the exhibition before at the cliffs, he had to wonder if Abaddon wasn't planning an even larger assault. And if she was, would they be able to deal with it? The more blood Sam took from him, the more feral he became. It was like trying to chain a sun about to nova. Even now the hunter was plowing ahead of him like a thresher through a field of wheat.

Crowley knew he could subdue Sam if he grew too wild; he just hoped it wouldn't have to come to that since it was Sam who had to deliver the soul to Cerberus. If he had to wait for Sam to regain consciousness, the time limit could expire and they'd be forced to find another soul. And Crowley would lose his chance at another hellhound. He'd lost enough already; he wouldn't lose this, too.

Finally, the curve of the Third Circle came into view. In the distance, they could hear the baying of Cerberus' three heads. Crowley exchanged a triumphant look with Sam. This was it. The final stretch. All they had to do was reach the pen and deliver the soul. Then one of the trials could be reversed and Sam could begin to recover. And a recovered Sam meant Murron.

"The Third Circle is pretty lax," Crowley explained as they hurried towards its border. "Very few demons come this way. Normally you only see the dead as they enter Hell and they won't give us any trouble."

"What about the breeders? What if they're working for Abaddon now?" Sam asked.

"Then we'll have to figure it out. Breeder or not, we're getting our hellhound."

"Hope you're right."

"I know I am."

This confidence carried them to the edge of the breeding pens where a number of demons patrolled. These were the specialists assigned to the creation of hellhounds. Already the kennels were filling with newborn hounds, freshly expelled by Cerberus. They slowed their pace to more of a walk as they approached the nearest breeder demon. She turned to them when they approached, casually at first, then did a doubletake when she realised it was Crowley. She dropped to both knees, gasping, "Sir, I didn't realise you were back in Hell! How can I help you?"

"Good to know your loyalties continue to reside in the right place, breeder," Crowley said. "I have a soul for you."

The breeder rose. "I am sorry for the loss of your previous hound, sir. He was a magnificent specimen."

"Yes, thank you," Crowley returned briskly, then gestured for Sam to come closer. "I need you to restrain Cerberus while he gives him the soul."

The breeder eyed Sam warily. "No offense, sir, but a human feeding Cerberus isn't a good idea."

Crowley slowly turned his gaze back to her. "Are you defying a direct order?" he asked softly.

"No, sir! No, of course I'm not. Only I don't want to see either your companion or Cerberus to be wounded," she replied quickly.

"I'll be fine," Sam said, cutting across her sputtered apologies. He looked down at Crowley. "How are we gonna do this?"

"I hand you the soul - yes, you'll be able to hold him. He'll change to his physical form once I release him. Then you take him over and put him in Cerberus' foremost mouth. That would be your right," Crowley explained. Sam blinked.

"I have to feed a dog to him? Literally?"

"Yes."

At first this seemed to sit awkwardly with Sam, who held a remarkable affection for dogs, almost as much as Crowley himself. Then he sighed, straightened his shoulders, and held out his arms. "Okay."

"Good lad," Crowley remarked quietly. He snapped his fingers and the full form of the German shepherd appeared in Sam's arms. The dog squirmed happily, angling his muzzle up to lick Sam's face excitedly. Sam started for Cerberus' pen with the breeder in tow, murmuring comforting words to the wriggling animal. The breeder rounded Sam to climb above Cerberus' cage; she straddled the great beast, putting herself between the middle and left heads. She nodded once to Sam, who hoisted the dog towards the right head. The shepherd dissolved into mist, which Cerberus inhaled and swallowed. Sam drew away from Cerberus as great digestive sounds began to thunder through the beast's body. The breeder remained between the first and second head, stroking the head that had taken the soul.

"Do you have any special instructions, sir?" the breeder called down to Crowley.

"Yes. Make this one bigger than my last," Crowley returned with a smile. The breeder stared at him for a moment, then bent to whisper something in Cerberus' ear. The great dog bared its teeth briefly, then seemed to turn its focus inward.

Meanwhile, Sam, who'd moved to stand closer to Crowley, gave a sudden grunt of pain. Crowley turned to see him fall to the ground, his back arching up as though he was about to vomit. Crowley knelt beside him, one hand resting between his shoulder blades as he inspected him carefully. Sam's forearms had begun to shimmer with the same shining gold light he'd witnessed in the church: the reverse trial was working. Crowley couldn't hide the relieved smile that curved his lips as he looked back at Cerberus, who'd begun to convulse with 'birth' pain. The breeder continued to stroke its heads soothingly.

"Sam. Sam, it's happening, you've done it," Crowley breathed gratefully, his smile broadening into a laughing grin. "Look, Sam. Look!"

Sam lifted his head with great difficulty, his own expression beginning to mirror Crowley's. From Cerberus' left head a hazy mist had begun to flow. It pooled onto the ground, forming a massive black shadow that morphed into a recognisable hellhound shape. True to his requirements, this hound dwarfed his predecessor twice over. When the vapor coalesced, the newborn hellhound put forth a great, bellowing howl. Sam echoed this howl, only his was far more pained. He curled onto his side, breathing hard through clenched teeth. Crowley remained at his side, both hands supporting Sam where they could.

"Easy, Sam, easy," Crowley said gently. "Nothing new is ever without pain."

In due course, Sam's pain subsided and he was able to relax under Crowley's touch. He looked up just as the hellhound he'd created padded over and bent his vaporous head to nuzzle his cheek. Crowley grinned. This one was almost big enough to ride, he thought as he reached out and stroked the hound's smokey back. Sam gripped the hound's broad neck, hauling himself into a sitting position.

"Should we give him a name?" Sam asked uncertainly, clearly taken aback at having a hellhound rub its face against his. "He's _huge_!"

"Yes, I daresay he is," Crowley replied approvingly. "Bet you never thought you'd create one of these, eh?"

"No, not in a million years!" Sam said laughingly. "Is he yours or mine?"

"He's both of yours," the breeder declared, coming up to admire her handiwork. "He'll be tethered to the king, of course, since you're human, but he will obey you both." She glanced at Crowley, apprehension entering her eyes. "Are you going to kill me now, sir?"

"I should," Crowley replied, rising to his feet. "However, things are different now. So long as you remain loyal - so long as you all remain loyal," he spoke to the other breeders, who'd gathered anxiously around them. "I will let you live. You are not to turn on me or swear allegiance to Abaddon. If you die for me, then you die for me. Otherwise, I will know of your treachery and kill you myself. All of you. Am I understood?"

The breeders gave their assent in broken unison. When the female breeder bent the knee to Crowley, the others followed suit. They echoed their loyalty with more strength, and Crowley smiled somewhat bitterly. Their loyalty was not borne of love, but of fear; however, in his current predictament, he'd have to take what he could get. Eventually he would win their respect and admiration. For now, though, this would have to do. They'd achieved the first part of the reverse spell; that in itself was a triumph.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

The evening after they returned from Hell, Sam sat on the sofa watching the hound move about the cabin, snuffling everything in sight. "Do you name hellhounds?" he asked, clapping his hands briefly to call the hound to his side. Crowley, in the kitchenette helping himself to the Craig he'd recently acquired, turned to chuckle at the direwolf-sized hellhound hoisting itself onto Sam's shoulders and rubbing its face against the hunter's.

"You can," Crowley replied, rounding the sofa and perching on the opposite arm. Sam craned his neck back to look the hound in the face, hands busily ruffling the beast's hazy neck fur.

"What about Max?"

"You want to name it Max?" Crowley echoed, drawing out the name in surprise.

"Yeah, he looks like a Max, doesn't he?" Sam turned the hound's head towards the demon. Crowley snorted, amused, and shook his head.

"Fine. Call it Max if you like," he said. "I suppose I can't complain. My last hound's name was, well." He paused to clear his throat, then lifted his glass to his lips. "Growley," he finished quickly, the word all but lost in the drink as he took a swallow. Sam laughed.

"You called it Growley? Seriously?"

Crowley smacked his lips briefly and shrugged indifferently. "Seemed appropriate at the time. And don't laugh. I loved that dog."

At that, Sam sobered. He sat idly stroking Max's back, his expression turning sympathetic. "I am sorry, you know. At the time I thought I was doing the right thing."

"Don't worry about it," Crowley dismissed, looking away and taking another drink. "Max is a good name." He rose and started for the Trap room.

"Something wrong?" Sam asked, concerned. Crowley shook his head without answering and disappeared into the darkened room, closing the door behind him.

Sam had taken the time to clear the entire room of all possible wards and Traps. Afterwards, he'd moved a spare camp bed into it in the event Crowley slept. Crowley rarely slept, though right now he felt like he could sleep for a week. Seeing Murron, yet still unable to take her with him, had left a scar on his heart. He still couldn't quite process the way it made him feel, or the fact it made him feel at all.

He'd been telling the truth when he said he'd always loved her, but could never say so. He couldn't even remember at what point it happened. It just was. He sat on the camp bed, the old springs creaking beneath his weight, and downed the rest of his Craig. The hand holding the glass fell limp at his side, his fingers barely holding onto the textured surface. He wanted her there, now, with him. He wanted it to be her that waited for him outside that door, that played with the new hellhound. But it wasn't and wouldn't be for awhile. There was no telling how long the reverse trials would take or if they would be interrupted. That's what Crowley feared the most: an interruption. Whether it came from Abaddon or Dean - for he knew if Dean found out about Sam's drinking demon blood again, he would do his best to stop their efforts. And he might succeed.

The glass slipped from Crowley's fingers as he continued to reflect on Murron's absence. He could easily pop down and spend the night with her if he really wanted to. But that would mean abandoning Sam and somehow, he didn't think he could do that right now. A strange relationship had sprung up between them, forged in a mutual desire for retribution and cemented in battle. Crowley had very little going for him now; at the moment, Sam, Max, and Murron was all he had. And even then, he was sans the one that truly mattered.

His heart lurched in his chest, causing him to grip his shirtfront. The sigil burned beneath his clothes, beating in time with his pulse as it always did whenever he thought of her. It called to her, just as it must have called to Kali. Seeing her, peaceful in her eternal sleep, entirely oblivious to the changes that had come about since her death, had brought everything back. Every last word spoken, every look shared, every missed opportunity to touch her and tell her that he loved her, even then.

Crowley lifted his head to the raftered ceiling, tears streaming down his cheeks. The suffocating feeling of being alone began to crowd around him. One night. Would it really be so bad? He glanced at the door. No, he'd stay. If he left even for a moment, anything could happen. Dean could randomly drop by or Garth. Though neither of them would be able to see Max, they would know something was up. Sam's improved appearance would surely tip them off. Well, perhaps not Garth, but Dean would definitely suspect something. They would have to complete the remaining two trials and quickly. There was even less time to waste, especially now that Abaddon knew they'd managed to get in and out of Hell with her desired hellhound in tow.

Bending to retrieve the glass from the floor, Crowley composed himself and went back into the main room.

With Max obeying both their orders, Sam was able to send the hound out to retrieve and take the innocent soul to Hell. Despite the ease, the notion of robbing someone of their soul just to stuff them into a dungeon for his sake sat ill with Sam. It took Crowley's promise that they would return the soul when the reverse trials were over, as such an act would no longer have the power to undo anything then. This settled Sam enough for him to relax.

Together, they watched Max take off into the night, his shimmering body a living flame amid the gnarled trees. When he'd fallen from sight, Sam turned away and returned to the sofa. Crowley stared out into the night a bit longer, his thoughts naturally turning to Murron. They were so close now! One more act and it would all be over. He would be free to release her from her sleep and speak with Gabriel. He still wasn't sure how he'd word the request, but suspected it would come to him when the time came. Also, Murron herself could be very persuasive and could perhaps be the one to convince him in the end. Regardless of who did the convincing, it had to be done and would be done, once everything here was completed.

Crowley knew he could have stormed Hell on his own and taken Murron from the crypt without Sam's help. However, perhaps out of some bizarre sense of solidarity, he'd chosen to help Sam overcome the effects of the Hell trials of which he felt partially responsible for. As monarch, Crowley could have prevented all demons from interfering with the Winchesters or mankind in general, which could have negated the need for the trials in the first place. Of course, controlling demons, mindless, idiotic lot they were, was an impossible dream and one Crowley had long abandoned shortly after claiming the throne.

Besides, he liked Sam. Sure, their relationship had started out unpleasantly, what with Sam's literal killer determination to end Crowley, but things had changed since then. Also, Crowley wanted to be useful, to perhaps use this instance as penance for all he'd done. Forgiveness began with Sam, that much he knew. Just whose forgiveness, he couldn't be sure.

With a gesture, Crowley closed the door and moved to join Sam on the sofa. Sam glanced up when the demon sat down with a tired sigh. "You okay?"

"Of course," Crowley replied carelessly. He was quiet for awhile; when he turned his gaze towards Sam, his expression was curious. "Aren't you worried about Dean possibly coming here and finding out what we've been doing?"

Sam smirked, then reached for a pillow beside him. He held it in his lap, his fingers working nervously at some loose threads along the seams. "No, not really. He's probably still busy looking for Cas."

"If it's not a tender subject, might I ask if you've ever felt...jealous of the relationship your brother shares with Castiel?"

Sam's brows drew together over his nose, the spiral crease coming into full relief. "No, I don't think so. I've been envious, maybe, since I didn't really have that. I only have Dean. Dean gets me _and_ Cas." He shrugged and put the pillow back. "Cas is family. I can't be jealous of family."

"Says who?"

"Says me," Sam returned, shifting to face Crowley. "Dean needs all of the support he can get; having us both is very important."

"And what about your support, then?" Crowley said. "Have you never once asked 'What about Sam?'?"

"No."

"Maybe you should," Crowley advised. "It's perfectly fine to be a little selfish now and again, Sam."

"I have been selfish before. I didn't look for Dean when he was trapped in Purgatory. Dean would argue that I've never been anything but selfish. Abandoning the family by going to school, keeping my relationship with Ruby a secret, starting the Apocalypse -"

"Just as we're clear on that count, Sam," Crowley interrupted, "it was your brother that officially began that process. You can't carry that weight forever."

"But Lucifer wanted me and I killed Lilith. I broke the final seal. Lucifer was my responsibility."

"And you handled that! Why not forgive yourself a little for once?"

Sam grimaced and turned away. "You wouldn't understand. If I let it go or pretend like it didn't happen, I'd never be able to keep going on."

"Your guilt keeps you going, then? Is that how it is?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that. Why else do you think I asked for forgiveness about letting Dean down so often? I don't care about myself if it's just me. That's why I'm doing these reverse trials at all: so I can be useful to Dean again. I've spent too many years of my life as baggage or a burden; I'm not doing that anymore, not if I can help it."

"You are not a burden, Sam," Crowley said pointedly. Sam stared at him.

"Really? If I'm not a burden, why did you have to protect me in Hell?"

"That wasn't a liability. We went into Hell knowing you would have problems, but we solved that, didn't we?"

"Yeah, by forcing me to go back on something I swore I'd never do again."

"Yeah, but it got the job done, right? And it's not like I'm cutting myself and waving it under your nose now," Crowley rejoined swiftly. "It was a temporary solution. In life or death situations, you often have to do things you'll regret later. You should know that."

Sam said nothing, his lips pressing into a thin, white line. An uncomfortable silence welled up between them, broken by the distant baying of Max outside the cabin. Crowley made to rise to open the door when Sam collapsed to the floor with a strangled cry. Rounding swiftly, Crowley went back to Sam's side as the second trial reversed itself inside him. It shook him harder than the first; the third would surely be far worse.

Shortly, the attack lessened, leaving Sam gasping for breath. Crowley put a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder as Max passed through the closed door and padded over to his masters. Max shoved his fiery muzzle into Sam's face, whimpering in concern. Weakly, Sam gripped the hound's neck, murmuring assurances, and pulled himself into a sitting position. "Two down, one to go," he breathed, deep regret entering his voice. The third reverse trial would be the worst: in order to finish the job, a soul would have to be turned into a demon, with Sam holding the torturer's blade.

"The torture dungeons encompass the seventh and eighth Circles; we'll bypass the other Circles and go straight for them," Crowley explained as they prepared for the final journey into Hell. "There's no point trying to be sneaky about it. Abaddon knows we've been there and back; she'll have people waiting for us." He slipped his angel blade through his belt and closed his suit jacket over it. "You ready for this? Home stretch."

"No choice now," Sam replied, tucking his own blade away in his inside jacket pocket. He nodded towards Max. "Guess he's coming?"

"Of course. A good demon never leaves without his hound," Crowley smiled, giving the fiery beast a pat on the back. "Especially when they're this big. We'll keep Abaddon's lackeys out while you complete the trial."

"How long do you think it'll take?" Sam asked after a moment. His reluctance lingered, as Crowley had expected. "I mean, it took us eight hours to get you to the breaking point; what if it takes another eight hours to make a demon?"

"It should take longer than that, but fortunately, time moves differently in Hell," Crowley said. "Don't think about it as a human soul. You've done far worse to my kind; this should be old hat for you." He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. To his credit, Sam said nothing to the contrary and the preparation continued in relative silence.

Crowley was just reaching for Sam's arm when Max began to growl softly. He was turned towards the front door, his hackles beginning to rise warningly. Crowley glanced back at Sam, who shrugged. Then they heard it. The familiar rumble of the Impala's engine.

"Dean!" they whispered in unison. Sam jerked his head towards the Trap room. Crowley seized Max's back scruff and hauled the great beast into the room, closing the door behind them just as the front opened.

Crowley positioned himself in the center of the room with Max. The hound continued to snarl softly; Crowley hushed him sharply. Out in the main room, he could hear Dean speaking to Sam, asking after his health and remarking on his improved color.

"You goin' somewhere?" Dean asked, his voice traveling as he moved about the cabin. The fridge door opened, followed by the hiss of a bottle cap.

"Thought I'd go for a walk since I'm feeling better," Sam replied quietly.

"Is it safe to leave Crumpets by himself?"

"He's Trapped, Dean."

"Doesn't mean the little bastard wouldn't try to take advantage," Dean replied coolly. "You go take your walk. I'll stay here, keep an eye on things."

"Why don't you come with me? I'd like to know what's been going on at the bunker. Have you found Cas yet?"

Dean was silent for a few minutes. Crowley could feel Sam's anxiety; he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to keep this charade up. If Dean discovered what they'd been doing, it could end then and there. Crowley's lips pressed together into a white line. It had become less of an issue about whether or not he could fetch Murron and more what would happen to Sam if the final trial remained inside him.

"What's wrong with you, Sam?" Dean asked finally. Sam made a noncommital noise.

"Nothing, why?"

"Because you're acting weird. There something I should know?"

"No."

"Then why won't you let me stay here and watch Crowley while you go for your little nature walk?"

"I told you: I want to know what's been happening with you."

Silence fell between the brothers again. Crowley twitched, wanting to move closer to the door, to appear and deflect Dean's suspicion from Sam. But he remained still. The lie had to be adhered to in order for everything to work. He would just have to swallow his pride for now.

"So," Dean began again, his words coming slowly. "What've you been doing to look so perky and healthy again? Drinking your smoothies, eating your Wheaties?"

"Just rest and quiet, I guess. I like it out here at the cabin."

"Garth's been that good of a shopper, huh?"

"Sure."

"Okay," Dean's tone grew impatient. Crowley heard him set his beer bottle onto a table with a hard clunk. "You're going to tell me exactly what's goin' on and I mean _exactly_. Something's not right here and I need you to be honest with me."

"I am being honest, Dean. Really, it's like detoxing from the demon blood. I just have to take it easy," Sam insisted. "Really, I'm fine. Just a few days more and I'll be okay to get back out there again. I want to find Cas as much as you do and help the other angels. I'm just not ready yet."

Dean sighed heavily, sadly. "Sorry, man. It's - it's been a rough few weeks. Kev can't find anything, the maps have been quiet...Cas is still out in the wind somewhere. Last thing I need is worrying about you doing some crazy shit behind my back."

"I know, Dean, but I'm not. I promise. I'm just trying to get better," Sam replied softly.

"Then come back to the bunker with me. Get better there." There was a measure of desperation in Dean's voice, a choking quality as though he might cry at any minute. "I can take care of you."

"What about Crowley?"

"What about him?"

"I can't just leave him here, Dean."

"Why not? He's Trapped, like you said. He could stand to sit and think about everything he's done."

"Because I took responsibility for him the day at the church. I may not have finished the trials, but he's still like this because of me. I have to -"

"Have to what? Take care of him?" Dean interrupted bitterly. "He's a demon, Sam. He can take care of himself. You can't. I need you back at the bunker. If you're getting better just by sleeping and eating your rabbit food, then you can sure as shit finish the job at home." When Sam didn't respond, he added, "Hell, take the little bastard with us! We've got a dungeon! Slap 'im in some chains and put him a dark place. Problem solved!"

"I am not going to put him in the dar - in the dungeons or chain him. The Trap is enough," Sam returned defensively. Then, as if realising what he'd said, he cursed softly. Dean was quiet; even in the Trap room, Crowley could feel the tension between them. "I mean, chains and dark rooms wouldn't be necessary," Sam amended uncomfortably. "He's not like he used to be. I mean, we could see that even before we came here. Probably wouldn't even need to put him in the dungeons. Just restrict him somewhere."

"I am not letting him roam free in the Batcave," Dean said. Another pause, then Dean sighed again. "Fine. Stay here with your demon roommate. I'm gonna keep lookin' for Cas." Crowley heard him open the front door. "Call me when you remember who your family is."

"Dean!" Sam called, but it was too late. Already the Impala's engine had started and soon Dean was gone. Crowley came out of the Trap room with Max in tow. Glancing out the window, he saw the flurry of dead leaves still spiraling in the car's wake. Sam slumped onto the sofa, one hand over his eyes.

"That could've been handled better," Crowley remarked, hoping to lighten the opressive mood. However, one look at Sam's face and he knew the joke was ill-timed and completely missed the intended mark. "Sorry."

"Nevermind. Let's just get this over with," Sam dismissed and stood. Crowley put out a hand to the hunter.

"You should think about patching things up with your brother first. If you go into the last reverse trial with that attitude, you might go overboard," he advised. Sam stared at him.

"No, we're so close! I'm fine, I swear! Let's just go down and -"

"Sam, I said no. Go home for a bit. Talk to Dean. I have something to take care of, anyway."

"Just an hour ago you were all gung-ho about this. Don't you need me to get Murron?"

"I do, but I won't have you making reckless decisions. Abaddon's Hell is not my Hell. She won't be so forgiving. If she senses even a little weakness, she'll take you down. You need to think about the big picture here. You want to help me? Then go patch things up with your brother. I'll stay here with Max until you get back. It's fine, really, Sam. Go mend your fences."

This seemed to register with Sam, for he relaxed and nodded. "Okay, but only for a few days. I'll be back soon and then we can finish this and get Murron."

"That sounds like a good plan." Crowley offered him a tired smile. "I could use the rest, anyway. I also need to train this one here." He nudged Max in the shoulder and Sam laughed.

Sam collected his things, gave Max a hearty ruffling, and left the cabin. Crowley watched him disappear around the bend of the forest path, his expression settling into hard lines. He didn't like abandoning the reverse trials, even for a little bit, but it would be easier on Sam - and Dean, when the truth came to light, for it always did - to mend things now. The boy needed a clear head to create a demon and Crowley wasn't about to have a timebomb following him around downstairs, not with the risks involved now.

Besides, there was something he needed to do. Something he should have done between the first two trials: It was time to speak to Gabriel.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The moon hung low in the sky, casting blue shadows across the square patch of grass that marked the remains of Murron's cottage. After contacting Kali, Crowley had stipulated he would meet with Gabriel here, as it would be where Murron's spirit would be restored should he agree. Here Crowley waited for the goddess and her celestial consort, one hand resting on the handle of the angel blade slung on his belt. He'd brought the weapon almost instinctively, but currently had no plans to use it. He'd just dealt with too many of Gabriel's kind not to come at least a little prepared.

The wind shifted, bringing with it the mingled scent of incense and the musk of warm feathers. Kali and Gabriel appeared across from where Crowley stood. There was a hardness about Gabriel's soft features; his eyes flashed like flintstones as he crossed the grassy patch. Kali kept a few steps behind him, her chin lifted high, her gaze as stoic as ever. When they came to a stop a few feet from Crowley, the demon couldn't help but notice the lines etching across Gabriel's face: the fall of his kind had affected even him. And now he was being called to make deals with demons. This would not be the casual exchange Crowley had hoped for.

Gabriel's eyes lifted to meet Crowley's. "The lady says you wanted to talk to me about something. Well. Here I am. What do you want?"

"A favor, one only your kind can bestow," Crowley replied. Gabriel's eyes narrowed slightly. "I regret that I come here empty-handed. You see, my power has been halved with the loss of my throne. However, if there is anything I can do, I will."

"Depends on the favor."

"I need you to restore someone to life."

Gabriel's tongue rolled around behind his bottom lip thoughtfully, his gaze leaving Crowley's face for a moment. "And why this person? What makes them so special?"

"She -"

"She? This is over a woman?" Gabriel interrupted. "You're joking, right? Is he joking?" He turned to look at Kali, who shook her head silently. "Could've warned me first, babe."

"Please, listen to him," Kali said quietly. "I have had dealings with his woman; she is honorable despite having sold her soul."

"Wait," Gabriel twisted back around to Crowley, "this person is in Hell?"

"Yes, she is," Crowley replied.

"Why not just bring her back yourself? You can do that, right?"

"No. What's left of her body, you're standing on," Crowley explained, his eyes shifting to Gabriel's feet. Gabriel followed his gaze, grimaced quizzically, and took a wide step back. "I burned her after she died so she couldn't be used against me."

"Thorough," Gabriel remarked casually. "Starting to see why you need my help."

"Are you saying you'll give it?" Crowley pressed.

"It's not that easy," Gabriel said. "For starters, why would_ I _help _you_? Why would any angel help a demon, for that matter?"

"Because sometimes we have things the other needs," Crowley pointed out, his mind immediately going to the dealings he had with Castiel. "You'd be surprised what angels would do if a demon had precisely what they needed. Your brothers had no problems working with me."

"Lucifer?" Gabriel supplied. Crowley shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. All that matters is what I can do for you so you'll help me."

"Says you. I'm still not seeing why this one soul is worth it." He eyed Crowley. "What was she to you that you went so far as to torch her body? And her house, for that matter?" He took in the scene with a sweep of his hand. "She sold her soul, I got that much, but since when do you guys burn your deals?"

"Murron was a rare deal. A rare woman," Crowley began, his voice constricting on the words. Gabriel wouldn't settle for anything less than an outright admission. He would have to reveal all if there was any hope of the angel assisting him. Slowly, he began to explain everything that had happened in that short year, his words growing steadily stronger and with more feeling as he went. The words he used to describe her seemed weak in comparison to the depth of emotion he felt for her, of what she'd felt for him, but still he continued. And as he neared the end of the story, his voice cracked on her name, finishing with a deep, shuddering sigh, stating: "Because I love her."

Gabriel stared at Crowley silently, his expression unreadable. Behind him, Kali had her head bowed; Crowley could see a shine on her cheeks: the goddess was crying. Still without a word, Gabriel stretched his hand back to her, which she accepted and clung to tightly. A softness entered the angel's eyes and he smiled faintly. "I never thought I'd live to see the day I heard a demon say he loved someone," he remarked. "However, it's not going to be enough. There has to be a sacrifice."

"What kind of sacrifice?" Crowley asked.

"If I do this for you, you have to give up the one thing aside from Murron that you value the most: your throne. Whatever happens, you give up being the king of Hell."

Crowley swallowed. Given the way Hell was now, how absolutely chaotic it was when they'd gone down there, he wondered if he'd even have the ability to restore it to his original vision. Order was a thing of the past with Abaddon making a go for the crown. And as she was significantly more powerful and feared than he was, it was very likely she'd succeed in her claim. And, if Crowley was lucky, she'd be content with that and leave him be. To leave him and Murron be. Did a kingdom full of stupid, disrespectful demons really compare to the love of the only woman to have done as much for him as Murron had? To Crowley's new humanity, there was no contest.

"Hell will always be there. Murron will not. I choose Murron," he said finally. "Until I die, I will always choose her."

"Fair enough. You give up the throne and I give you your girlfriend back. Now, if you'll excuse me," Gabriel cast Crowley a cocky smile, snapped his fingers, and flew off, the beating of his wings sounding in his wake. Kali remained behind, her dark eyes sliding over to meet Crowley's gaze. Crowley glanced up towards the sky, his features a study in confusion, then looked back to Kali.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, crossing the short distance between them. Kali put out a hand to him.

"You understand he has a lot on his plate at the moment," she explained calmly. "But what he said is true: when you abandon the throne of Hell, he'll restore Murron to life. It must be an open declaration, not a quick decision. You changed things in Hades when you took over. You have to abandon those changes now in order to have Murron."

"I already did an 'open declaration'!" Crowley insisted hotly, jerking a finger towards the sky. "I choose Murron!"

"Abdicating isn't like cutting class or choosing a different route to take when driving, Crowley," Kali returned just as heatedly. "It must be done properly. You're connected to Hell; all sensitive things in the universe can feel that. Gabriel senses your link to the Underworld and until that link is severed, Murron remains in Hell."

"What, am I to go up to Abaddon or to the center of Hell itself and announce I've given it up, is that it?"

"It'd be a start."

"Fine. If that's what it takes, I'll do it." Crowley turned away from Kali, his mind already shifting to the crypt where Murron lay.

With Max in tow, Crowley made his descent into Hell, appearing within the tomb to avoid notice in the event Abaddon had scattered her lackeys beyond Dis. He bade Max sit outside to keep watch, his steps already taking him to the crypt's central chamber.

Every inch of his body tingled at the prospect of holding her again, of hearing her voice, and feeling her touch. The renewal of his humanity amplified these sensations; by the time he reached the coffin, his heart was beating fast and hard in his chest. With trembling hands, he unfastened the gilt latches along the lid's seam. Before he could lift the thing standing between him and the only woman ever to truly love him, Max's deafening howl rumbled through the crypt.

Crowley released the coffin lid , his eyes locked on the double doors leading to the rest of the tomb as they were forced open. A small platoon of demons filed in, black eyes flashing, teeth bared. Between the writhing cluster, Crowley saw Max's massive bulk lying on its side near the entrance. He gave a fierce cry and thrust his hand towards the demons. They scattered like leaves all around the chamber, grunting as they struck the various treasures along the walls.

Crowley pushed forward, deflecting those that revived the quickest and made to attack him again. He hovered close to the coffin lest it shatter and her soul escape into the ravaged landscape of Hell's outer Circles. The demons that regained their feet saw this and immediately made for the dais. Without Max's or Sam's help, Crowley knew it wouldn't be long before he was overpowered. The one sanctuary in Hell had been breached; any number of demons could waltz in and try to take him out. Aready they'd recognised his weakness and sought to exploit it.

He threw those that grabbed for the coffin lid, his hands a blur of motion as he twisted left and right, back and front. Then, remembering Kali's words, Crowley tapped into the link he shared with Hell, summoning the same might of the thousands of souls that had turned the tide during the battle with Baal. A large crack formed from his feet to splinter the marble floors of the crypt, the gaping maw swallowing the unlucky demons that stood above it. It didn't matter that none of them believed him to be their king. The power he weilded as the modern Hades was enough, especially when it came to protecting the only thing left worthy of his protection. He didn't realise he'd been screaming his claim until the majority of the demons had fallen into the chasm and the crypt itself had begun to crumble beneath the seismic vibrations he'd created. Then Max, awakened to the sounds of battle, was at his side, his fiery body shielding him from falling rock above.

_Murron!_ Crowley, Max remaining close by, hoisted the lid boldly from the coffin, murmured a hasty spell of incubation, and took her soul within him. He wasn't about to leave without her. Then he and the hellhound hastened out of the crumbling tomb.

Murron's soul burned beneath his skin, beating in time with his heart and illuminating the sigil like a beacon. Crowley looked back as the towering edifice he'd created in her honor folded in on itself, quickly becoming a pile of marble and ruined antiquities. The remains of the coffin glittered amidst the polished stone. He pressed a hand to his chest, fingers curling into his shirtfront protectively. He'd done what he'd come to do, but getting out of Hell could prove difficult. He had no doubt in his mind that Abaddon had sent that passel of demons after him. What more, he still had to go to the center of the Circles and abdicate the throne. Only when his link with Hell was broken would Gabriel agree to restore Murron; bringing her back was the single most important thing to him.

The sound of slow clapping rang through the air and Crowley spun around just as Max began to growl. A demon was casually approaching them, smiling with such malice he knew immediately it had to be Abaddon.

"Abaddon," Crowley bit out venomously. "You're responsible for this?"

"Of course I am, sunshine," Abaddon declared, her smile blossoming into a triumphant grin. "I see the Winchesters let you out of your chains. Stupid idea, but then, if they hadn't, I wouldn't be able to play with you now." She leaned in. "Holding something, are we? You know, when I found out you had a sweetheart down here, I just about laughed myself silly. I knew you were pathetic, salesman, but this was a new low, even for you. I didn't know insects like you were capable of such disgusting sentiment."

"I'm just full of surprises, love," Crowley returned.

Abaddon's good humor fled, her features twisting into a dark frown. "Yes, so I've noticed. You've stolen my hellhound, salesman, and now you think you can just pop in and out as you please?"

"I know I can, sweetheart. I'm the king."

"You're a fraud, Crowley," Abaddon sneered. "If you think you could ever hold the same position as our father -"

"Lucifer was in a Cage!" Crowley thundered. "What king rules from a prison? And he is no father of mine. That's a lie perpetuated by weak-minded fools like yourself. I took charge of my own path while you lot ambled on, directionless, chaotic, _stupid. _I am the king Hell needed. There's actual organisation now - or there was before I was taken and you came down here with your chaos and ruin."

"We're demons, Crowley. Chaos and ruin is what we're all about. Or has little Sammy Winchester's blood shown you differently? Is that why you carry a torch for that soul burning inside you now? Who was she, salesman? Some back alley whore looking to make her fortune? Empty-headed little piece of nothing who thought it'd be fun to sell her soul? She can't have been anyone of any value if she wanted you."

Crowley knew she was trying to rile him up and make him careless. It took great willpower to smother the urge to separate her head from her shoulders. Abaddon had the unfortunate reputation of being virtually unkillable. Anything he did to her now would only buy him moments, if that, and he still had to relinquish the throne.

But not to her. Not ever to someone like her. _I would sooner let Lucifer out! _"If I didn't know any better, Abaddon, I'd say you sounded jealous," Crowley grinned. Abaddon gave a crow of laughter.

"You were beneath me before you crowned yourself king of a pile of worthless demons and you're beneath me now as you play pretender to the greatest title of them all. No, Crowley, I am not jealous. Confused, amused, but never jealous. Not of anything of yours. Of course," she added smoothly, "if that soul is that special to you, I'm going to enjoy ripping it out of you."

With that, Abaddon lunged for him. Crowley blinked out just before she made contact; she spun about, fist first and caught him in the jaw. He reeled from that briefly, silently cursing her uncouth, hands-on approach to everything, and unsheathed his angel blade. Abaddon snarled at the sight of it. She might be near unkillable, but he could still mess her up.

He slashed towards her with the blade, grunting when she deflected it off her arm as her other fist came up and clocked him in the face again. His teeth bit through his tongue and blood filled his mouth. He was clumsy and disoriented from the first scuffle in the tomb. He whistled through the blood. Max pounced onto Abaddon's back, his massive body engulfing her in transparent flames. She shrieked and fought to get the hound off, allowing Crowley time to get further away. Once he'd gained a sizeable distance, he pulled power from the tormented souls once more and sent another jagged line through the ground. It gaped right where Abaddon continued to struggle with Max. The hound shifted violently on her back, guiding her to the crack. Just as her foot slipped into the maw, Max propelled himself from her shoulders, the violent motion sending her tumbling into the crevice. With a snap of his fingers, Crowley sealed the fissure.

She wouldn't be down long. All he'd done was send her into the center of Hell. Calling Max to him, Crowley turned to made good his escape when the ground began to shake violently. As he rounded about, Abaddon burst through the freshly-sealed fissure. Rocky debris fanned out in all directions, striking against Crowley's upraised arms. Max yelped as one slammed into his front leg, forcing him to his knees. Abaddon's face was a study in rage as she advanced on Crowley, the full force of her powers preceding her. They slammed into Crowley's chest, knocking the wind from him and sending him across the landscape.

He landed hard on his back, barely able to react before Abaddon was upon him again. She kicked him in the jaw, knocking him down, then straddled his waist. She plummeled his face repeatedly with her fists, each strike amplified by her powers. She was incredibly strong, almost too strong for Crowley in his semi-weakened state. Moreover, he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks while Murron's soul remained inside him. Remembering her, he shored up his remaining strength and telekinetically hurled Abaddon from him.

He scrambled to his feet, one hand clutching his chest protectively, the other stretched out to keep Abaddon away from him. She pushed against his forcefield, eyes flashing black. "You can fight all you want, salesman! I will kill you and rip that soul from your chest! And when she's mine, she'll know pain like no one else ever has in Hell!" she screamed.

Crowley couldn't bring himself to verbally fence her, his concentration was so focused on keeping her at bay. But her words registered: he knew that if she got hold of Murron's soul, she would destroy it. He couldn't allow that. He wouldn't allow it. He bit his lip hard, realising he would have to make a decision. Saving her soul was the most important thing right now. With great effort, he called to Max. The hound, still limping from his injury, appeared at his master's side. "Take her!" Crowley cried, tearing his shirt open to expose the glowing, burning sigil. Max hesitated the barest of moments, then fiercely slashed at Crowley's chest. His claws, longer and sharper than any beast living, tore through every skin layer, rending muscle, and snapping bone. Crowley tried to keep himself from crying out in pain, but as the hound seized Murron's soul in his teeth, tearing her from Crowley's body, he released that pent-up howl just as Max vanished in a swirl of smoke.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Something wet and sticky fell over Crowley's closed eyes, prompting him to open them. Red clouded his vision briefly, then he blinked. The blood clung to his lashes like glue; his blood no doubt. He couldn't feel his arms. For a moment this alarmed him, but upon glancing to his right, he saw he was strung up by his wrists: his arms had fallen asleep. Looking down, he saw he'd been suspended a fair distance from the floor; his ankles were bound as well and his feet were bare. His suit jacket had been taken from him, as had his tie, and his shirt was open all the way. The wound left by Max when he'd extracted Murron's soul throbbed painfully. The torn muscle could still be seen through the ribbons of flesh that hung from him. The sigil had been completely destroyed.

_But at least she's safe. At least Murron is safe._

Or he hoped she was. Max was still young and Murron's was only the second soul he'd carried. Crowley wondered where the hound had taken it. To Sam? What could Sam do? Without someone to bear him into Hell, he wouldn't be able to do anything to help Crowley out of this, if helping him out was even an option now that he'd gone back to Dean. Crowley bowed his head. He was alone again. He couldn't risk summoning Max to him and there was no way to contact Sam. He'd have to get himself out of this scrape.

He took another look about him. He was clearly in some kind of dungeon, though not, he suspected, the main dungeons. There were no cries of the damned echoing around him, nothing that would suggest he was in the Eighth Circle. Wherever he was, it was no part of Hell he'd visited. Perhaps Abaddon had already begun redecorating, starting with the pit he found himself in now.

A long metal tabled stained with blood sat in the center of the room. The frayed leather straps hung limp from the sides, the buckles tarnished. A trolley loaded with rusty torture instruments was pushed into a corner; it, too, was caked with old blood. Another set of manacles were set into the wall across from him, though they bore the strange shine of being newly-installed. Crowley was the first to be strung up, but not the first to be tormented here.

The heavy door swung open with a loud creak and a male demon strode in, followed by Abaddon in her new meatsuit. The demon wore a weathered apron made of skin and on his hands were long gloves of the same material. He moved to the trolley and began organising the tools while Abaddon strode over to Crowley, beaming maliciously up at him.

"How do you like my private torture chamber, salesman?" she purred, turning to take in the small cell as if it were a grand ballroom and not a blood-soaked pit. "I had it made long before you played king. Of course, these are new." She jiggled the shackles on his ankles. He jerked his feet from her grasp; she laughed. "We're going to have so much fun, Crowley."

"You can torture me all you like, sweetheart, it won't get you anywhere," Crowley said. "I haven't been made to talk for millenia."

"Who said I wanted to make you talk?" Abaddon asked with feigned confusion. "I just want to make you scream!"

"You won't get that, either," Crowley assured her. "You'll just be wasting your time."

"I don't believe a word of that, sunshine," Abaddon grinned. She walked her fingers up to the wound on his chest. He instinctively recoiled as her hand hovered there. "You sure screamed when your puppy dog was ripping her soul out." She dug her nails into the wound, going deep enough to grip his ribcage. He coughed up a large clot of blood, grinding his teeth against the pain that shot through him. She twisted sharply, her grin broadening when a strangled gasp of pain escaped him. "That's better," she drawled, the words a caress. "Now I'm going to show you what happens to pretenders."

She withdrew her hand, patiently wiped it off on her companion's apron, and moved to stand on the opposite side of the gurney. The tormentor pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the chains connecting to Crowley's wrist and ankle shackles. Crowley was then telekinetically moved onto the gurney where he was strapped in, arms and legs akimbo. A thick belt was placed over his neck and forehead to keep his head still. When all of this was complete, Abaddon moved to bend over him.

"Do you know what happens to a demon when they're tortured for the same length of time as a human soul?" she asked coolly. Crowley pulled at his restraints, his eyes glaring into hers silently. "They go mad. Absolutely mad. I'm going to keep you in here until you're only fit for the looney bin. People like you don't get to rule people like me. You don't deserve that kind of power."

"And still I took it," Crowley snarled. "And I kept it. They fear you now, whore, but before you came back here on your little time warp, they feared me more. One small mistake and it was over for them. I allowed for zero mistakes and they knew it. I didn't bother with torture. I didn't waste my time with scare tactics. You either did your job or you died. I doubt you have the same conviction, even if you are a chaos demon."

"You doubt my conviction?" Abaddone echoed. "Well, you won't for long." She straightened and nodded to the male demon. "Take a little off the top. A king shouldn't be so fat," she ordered coldly, gliding away from the gurney to watch. The tormentor took her place, a scalpel pinched between his fingers.

When the blade touched down on the rise of Crowley's abdomen, he braced himself for the first cut. Warm blood spilled over his skin, pooling at his hip. He could feel it beginning to penetrate his trouser pocket. He forced himself to think of something else, of anything else but the burning sensation of the scalpel slicing through him. The tormentor was very precise, even going so far as to set aside the wafer-thin slices of flesh on the trolley. Crowley kept his eyes averted, both from those of the demon torturer and Abaddon's glittering stare.

_Think of Murron._ He closed his eyes, teeth baring on a pained grunt, fighting to bring her face to mind. _Remember her laugh, her voice, the way she looked whenever you teased her. The scent of her hair when she put her head on your chest, the way her fingers danced over your skin. Her eyes as they looked at you with love, longing, and an ache only you could satisfy. Think of her. Think of her restored, happy, laughing, warm and alive and loving you enough to sacrifice everything. Everything. She's safe. My darling is safe. _

_Murron..._

"Murron," he whispered, a burning tear escaping his eye and trickling over his cheek. He closed his eyes, resigned to the slow torture at the tormentor's hands and at Abaddon's command. There was no one left now. No one left to help him. But at least Murron's soul was safe.

When the wet, fleshy sound of bone meeting bone sounded above him, Crowley opened his eyes. Through the haze of tears and blood he saw a large shadow beside the gurney, a flash of steel, and the bright orange glare of a demonic soul being snuffed out. He heard Abaddon's furious hiss, smelled the sulfur of her escape. Then, the sweetest of voices sounded close to his ear:

"I'm here, my love."

When consciousness saw fit to rouse him again, Crowley opened his eyes. His head was resting against something warm and soft; gentle hands stroked his face and immediately he knew it was Murron. He looked up, tears prickling his eyelids, to see her face haloed by her wild copper hair. "My darling," he whispered. "You're really here?"

"Yes, Crowley, I am," she assured him softly.

"Where are we?"

"Still in Hell. Sam and Max are just outside. Do you want to see them?"

"No. No, I only want to see you." He strained to sit up, the pain in his abdomen almost too great to withstand. Gingerly, Murron helped him up, catching him in her arms when he fell against her. His arms crept about her shoulders, holding her fast to him. He bowed his head against her neck, breathing in the pomegranate scent of her gratefully. She curled her arms under his, holding him just as securely. When she kissed his temple softly, he lifted his head, his hands creeping up to cup her face. He kissed her gently at first, the feel of her lips on his restoring every memory that had been subconsciously blocked out. His mouth trembled against hers as his emotions rushed to the surface. His voice splintered, breathing her name into the kiss, followed by the one thing he'd been waiting to tell her since she'd died:

"I love you, Murron. I love you so much, my darling."

"I never stopped loving you, my king," Murron swore, her own voice catching. "Forever and ever, remember?"

"And ever and ever," he finished with a broken laugh. His fingers coiled in her hair tightly, his mouth working on the barely-supressed flood of emotions. He murmured his love for her again and again, over and over until she silenced him with another kiss. It felt both strange and liberating to finally speak those words, to tell her what he wished he'd had the strength to then.

They held each other for a long time after the kiss ended, both content just to remain intwined. But there was still much to be done and they couldn't stay in Hell for long. Reluctantly, Crowley drew away from Murron. "I have to get you out of here. You're not safe down here. None of us are."

"But I can't leave here," Murron reminded him, puzzled. "I have no body."

"How do you know that?"

Murron smiled affectionately at him and cradled his cheek. "I heard you clear as anything whenever you'd come and talk to me. You burned everything after I'd died so nothing could ruin me. You kept me safe, but only so long as you remained king here. Sam told me your reign isn't as strong as it was before and that this Abaddon is trying to kill you."

Crowley's expression turned grim. "Sam's right. But I'm not worried about Abaddon anymore. I'm going to abdicate and bring you back to life. That was the deal I made with Gabriel. I give up the crown and he'll restore you again."

"But you fought so hard to get it!" Murron protested. "You killed Baal and Puriel to become king of Hell! Why throw it away?"

"For you, you stupid girl," Crowley replied, his tone as teasing as it had ever been. "You're worth more to me than all the crowns in the world." He took her face in his hands again, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. "I would do anything for you, Murron. Anything."

Murron was speechless. She gazed at him in confusion at first, then her features softened into a smile and she clasped his hands. "I'm glad to hear that, Crowley, because there's something I need you to agree to."

"Whatever you need, my darling, you'll have it."

"I want to help Sam finish the reverse trials," Murron said, staring intently into his eyes. Crowley blinked, puzzled at first. Then it dawned on him and he shook his head furiously.

"No. No, I won't let you do that. You don't know what it feels like!"

"But you would have helped him eventually, right?" Murron pressed. "Why shouldn't it be me? Why turn some poor soul against their will? Even if it is Hell? You're asking a human to torture a soul! If he'd done that to a stranger, he would have lived with the guilt for the rest of his life! I can at least forgive him. Please, Crowley, you've already done so much to help him: let me do my part."

"But it has nothing to do with you!" Crowley insisted. "Why would he even tell you about those?"

"When I saw it was Max with him and not Growley, I knew something had happened," Murron explained. "I made him tell me why it was another hellhound to bring me to him and not Growley. I made him tell me everything, everything that's happened from then till now. My love," she gripped his hands firmly, "I know what they tried to do to you. I know your humanity has been restored. I know what they did. I know the pain you've caused, the people you've killed." She swallowed hard, fingers digging into his skin urgently. "And I still love you. I know you were just doing it to survive -"

"Don't make excuses for me, Murron, I can't take it," Crowley interrupted, turning his face away and releasing her. He shifted as best he could to turn away from her. "You've always made excuses for me. My humanity won't let me forget all I've done. You can dress it up however you like, but the truth remains that I have killed, maimed, and murdered all in the name of my own survival."

"Play martyr all you like, Crowley, it won't change how I feel," Murron said firmly, turning him back towards her. He lifted anguished eyes to her. "I didn't judge you then and I won't judge you now. So, how about you stow the self-pity act for awhile and let me help the only person who could or would save you?"

Crowley felt defeated. Sam didn't have to come down and get him. He didn't have to risk his life and his relationship with Dean to pull him out of the fire. But the boy did and Crowley couldn't help but feel a heavy guilt coupled with intense gratitude towards him. But to let Murron be the final trial? He wasn't sure he could endure that. "I don't want to listen to that," he said finally. "I can't. I'd kill him."

"Then don't listen. It only has to be done halfway, right? Like what happened to you?"

"It's not as easy as that. It's not like he'll cut you up a bit and then call it a day. It needs to be so bad that you beg for mercy and for a chance to do it to someone else. Becoming a demon is long and hard. It's not something you willingly go through. It's meant to be punishment. That's why it's torture."

"I know what it is. If you want me to not make excuses for you, you need to stop trying to treat me differently than any other soul here in Hell. I sold my soul for love, for the love of you, but I'm still damned. Besides," she added, brushing his hair from his forehead gently, "if I'm a demon, I can have any body I want, right? And we'd be together. I'd be like you. I'd understand you."

"Murron, I can't," Crowley repeated sadly. "I wanted to save you from that. I thought you'd want to remain human."

"While it's true I don't really relish the idea of being a bunch of smoke, I feel this is the right thing to do. This one final act and we all get what we want. Sam is free of the trials' effects and I can come up and be with you. Forever. Haven't we already promised forever?"

She was breaking down his resolve. It wasn't the ideal, but it was true, they'd be together. They'd be equals. And he wouldn't have to relinquish his throne. He closed his eyes tightly. Everything he wanted without losing what he'd gained. But she would lose herself. The loving nature that defined everything she did would vanish. She would become cruel. There could be no equality while his humanity remained and she abandoned hers. "There's something you're forgetting, my darling," he murmured. "You'll lose your humanity, but I'll still have mine. We'd still be different."

Murron's face fell. Just as he thought: she hadn't considered that aspect. Her eyes darted about as she mulled over his words. "Is it always that way?" she asked finally.

"Yes. No demon comes away with their humanity. They wouldn't be demons otherwise."

"But my only sin was loving you," Murron reminded him. "Maybe it won't affect me the same?"

"Are you willing to take that chance?" Crowley asked, taking her hands in his. "For a stranger?"

"He came for you. He saved you. I trust Sam," Murron replied. She gripped Crowley's fingers tightly, a strained smile on her face. "I can't stay here. None of us can. We have to do this now if we want to live."

"Then, if you're certain, I'm not leaving your side. I'll stay with you through it all."

"And you won't try to kill Sam?" Murron pressed, her smile relaxing. Crowley's own smile was a mixture of amusement and deep regret. In response, he drew her to him and kissed her forehead firmly.

"My brave, stupid girl," he whispered against her skin. "Swear you won't tempt hunters when you're a demon, yeah?"

Murron's laugh caught in her throat. "I'll do my best. We should get Sam. I want to get out of here."

They rose and, with his arm about her shoulders, walked out to where Sam and Max waited.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Sam bore a look of deep apology as Crowley moved around the dungeon Abaddon had kept him in, casting wards and other protective spells so that they could work undisturbed. Crowley's face was pale, either from the torture he'd endured or the fact the woman he loved was offering herself up to become a demon. He worked silently, keeping his mind focused on the task. Whenever Sam tried to open a dialogue, Crowley patiently hushed him. He knew what the boy wanted to say; he just didn't want to hear it.

Murron perched on the gurney, washed clean of Crowley's blood and the blood of those tortured before him. Whenever Crowley passed her, he slid his hand over her knee, as if to reassure himself of her being there. He finished, coming up to stand beside her. He took up her hands and lifted them to his lips, pressing a kiss on her knuckles with great reverence. "Are you sure?" he asked again in a whisper. "Are you absolutely sure? Because your survival is assured; there's no need to do this to come back."

"I'm not doing it to come back," Murron replied, shifting her hands till she held his instead. She returned the affectionate gesture. "I'm doing it to help Sam, like you were."

"Crowley's right, Murron," Sam interjected. "You don't have to do this if Gabriel's already agreed to bring you back. And as a human. I can live with turning a random soul into a demon. Really."

"Maybe it's because I'm dead, but I can see into your heart, Sam, and I know that's not true," Murron said. "Both of you," she smiled, looking between them. "I swear I will be fine. I'm not afraid."

Sam exchanged a meaningful look with Crowley. "Are you sure you want to be here for this?"

"Yes. I won't leave her alone," Crowley replied. "I can't."

"I'll put Max outside, then, for extra precaution," Sam said, rapping his thigh briskly to call the hound to his side. Max dutifully bounded out to stand in the corridor and Sam shut the door after him. He glanced back up at Crowley, then looked towards the trolley. "You might have to tell me what to do," he told Crowley, deep shame in his voice. "I've...never had to do this before."

Crowley felt his heart catch in his throat. The idea of having to guide Sam through the torture of the woman he loved galled him. It sat in the pit of his stomach like a chunk of ice. Still, as he gazed back at Murron, who returned it with gentle encouragement, he hardened himself to the task and patiently began explaining the procedure.

The first step was to humilate the soul, especially if the soul was female. To do this, he had Murron strip and lay out on the gurney. Her cheeks were pink as she lay there exposed beneath Sam's gaze. Sam, out of some instinctive respect, averted his eyes, prompting Crowley to snap at him to pay attention. "You either do this proper or you don't do it at all," he hissed. "It's not enough that the soul be embarrassed. You have to frighten them, make them fear for their lives. They know they're dead and assume the dead cannot feel pain. It's your job to show them otherwise. Take up the knife there. The silver one." He jerked his chin towards the trolley behind Sam. Sam did as he was told, taking up the silver knife and stepping up to the gurney. "Silver is the best thing for black witches' souls. You'll want to start slow, build up the fear. Go on, then."

Sam hesitated, the blade above Murron's stomach. He cast an uneasy glance up at Crowley, eyes still full of unspoken apologies. The stare Crowley returned was hard, cold. Sam drew in a deep breath and pressed the knife to Murron's skin, breaking it and drawing blood. She inhaled sharply, biting her bottom lip against the pain. Her fingers gripped the edge of the gurney, knuckles whitening whenever Sam made another cut. Just how long she'd hold out depended on Sam. He couldn't rush, but he also couldn't afford to be gentle, either.

The process was slow. Sam had no taste for this sort of thing. He proceeded to gingerly cut and prod with the knife, his face a study in inner torment. Though she did not cry out, Murron still whimpered softly. The sound pierced through Crowley's heart and, snatching up the knife from Sam's grip, presented it to him. "If you're going to pussyfoot around this, Sam, I'm going to have do this for you. You don't just chip away at them. You have to hurt them. You have to _mean_ it. You don't mean a bit of this."

"I'm torturing your girlfriend, you ass!" Sam returned heatedly. "With you standing right there! You're not making this easy!"

"It's not supposed to be easy!" Crowley bit back. "It's supposed to be messy. Hard. _Satisfying. _You either go at it with gusto or you don't go at all."

"What the hell would you know about how this feels? Do you think you could actually do this to her? And _enjoy _it? I don't believe that."

"You don't think I could do it? You don't think _I, _the King of Hell, could do it?" Crowley demanded, his grip on the knife tightening. His eyes were wild, he knew, wild with the pain at having to listen to Murron suffer, wild with impatience at having to sit through Sam's clumsy tactics. His conscience fought with his demonic urges: he wanted to save Murron from the pain to come, but he also wanted to inflict it. To show Sam how it was done.

Maybe he would have to show him, after all.

When Sam said nothing, Crowley flipped the knife in his fingers, blade down, and pierced Murron's upper arm. The wound hissed and she screamed. He twisted the blade through her muscle, teeth baring in sadistic delight even as his eyes grew wet with tears. "You have to mean it, Moose!" he cried cruelly. "You have to want to see her bleed, to hear her scream!" He withdrew the knife sharply, jerking loose a fibre of muscle in the process. "Mean it." He moved down the gurney to drive the blade into Murron's thigh. "Mean it!" He jerked it out again, his ears deaf to her screams, rounding the now bloodied table to stand in front of Sam. "Mean it like you've never meant it before! She's not someone you know - she's Meg, she's Ruby, she's Lilith! She's every whore who's ever crossed you, who's ever tried to kill you! She's Azazel, she's Lucifer! _You do this right or I swear to God I'll cut your throat for hurting her!" _He delivered those last words frantically, his heart and mind at odds, frozen with an agony he'd never felt before.

"All right! I get it! I'll do it!" Sam shouted in return, snatching the knife from Crowley's grasp and pushing him out of the way. He cast Murron one last apologetic glance, then dragged the blade down her torso, cutting deep. With a frantic energy, a desperation to complete the final trial, Sam tore into Murron. He exhausted the use of the silver knife, changing it out for a brutal-looking instrument that plucked and pinched and rent her flesh. Her screams echoed through the room, broken, hoarse.

Behind Sam, Crowley heard her torment with barely-supressed rage. He wanted to snap Sam's neck for what he was doing. He wanted to do it himself, so that it would be finished quickly. He wanted to do anything to shut out the sounds of her screams and sobbing cries for mercy. When he heard his name through one of these tortured cries, he hastened to stand beside her, his eyes turned from the mess Sam had made of her body. He gripped her limp hand, lifeless from the wound he'd made in her muscles, and held it against his ear as if to block out the sounds. She continued to writhe about, mouth open in a perpetual howl of pain, her voice coming in squeaks and gasps and throaty sobs. She jerked as each new cut and wound was made, her back rising from the gurney. She couldn't return Crowley's grip, nor did she seem aware of his presence anymore. The pain had blocked out all other sensation.

An hour passed like this before Sam thrust the trolley from him and stumbled to lean against the wall, panting. "I can't," he gasped. "I can't do this."

Crowley stared at him. "Yes, you can. You have to. You can't leave her like this. You have to finish it."

"Look at her!" Sam shouted, gesturing with an open hand towards Murron. "She's ribbons! How is this not enough?"

"Because she hasn't asked to do it yet!" Crowley reminded him harshly. "I told you this would take a long time; I wasn't kidding. You have to finish it."

"I can't. I'm sorry. I'd rather live with the effects of the trials. I'm better now, I don't have to finish them," Sam insisted. Crowley released Murron's hand and crossed over to where Sam stood. He gripped Sam's shirtfront in both hands, hoisting the taller hunter against the wall with all his demonic strength.

"You finish this," he hissed, twisting the fabric in his hands hard enough to make himself bleed. "I can't let Gabriel restore her soul when it's like this. You have to finish it. If you don't finish it, I will kill you myself."

Sam gaped at him. "How can you be so cruel?" he breathed. "Do you enjoy seeing her like this?"

Crowley dropped Sam with a violence that almost knocked him from his feet. "If you think I enjoy this, you're the cruel one," he replied, voice low. "But you have to finish it. Don't leave her like this."

Sam wilted beneath Crowley's words. "All right, all right. But I need a break. Please, just give me a break."

"You can have ten minutes. After that, I expect you to come back in with your game face on. You will not leave her like this."

Sam nodded reluctantly, then left to stand in the corridor. Alone, Crowley returned to Murron's side. Her eyes were glassy with pain, all awareness gone from them. She stared past him when he bent over her, taking up her hand again. He tried to swallow past the hard lump in his throat as he took in the damage done to her body. As Sam had described, she was indeed ribbons, her flesh hanging in jagged strips from the violently-rent wounds dealt her. The dull white of her hip bones showed through where Sam had cut a sizeable chunk of flesh from her. It was like every nightmare he never knew he could have. With a broken sob, Crowley bent his forehead to rest against hers, sputtering apologies for having hurt her.

Murron shifted her head against his, her voice coming in vague, far-away whispers. Clumsily, she lifted her good hand to him, resting it awkwardly against his face. Her whole body shook, muscles weak and weary from pain. This wouldn't last. Crowley would have to restore her whole again so Sam could repeat the process. That was the true core of the creation of demons: repetition. They had to revisit the pain and the feeling of dread from the pain every session or it wouldn't take. Murron would have to be torn apart and put back together multiple times.

He lifted his head. It would be best to restore her before Sam returned. Dully, Crowley gestured above her: her wounds healed, the evidence of the first round of torture vanishing in an eyeblink. When he looked back at her, her eyes were closed as though asleep. This would not do. He snapped his fingers above her face and her eyes flew open as though a gun had been fired next to her ear. She looked at him frantically, then ran her hands down her body.

"Is it over?" she asked in a breathless whisper. Crowley shook his head.

"You need to be hurt and healed many times before it takes," he informed her numbly. "I don't know how long, though, so don't ask me." He gazed down at her, his heart in his eyes. "Do you remember everything?"

"It's a blur. I just remember pain, lots of it. I remember..." Here she paused, her eyes narrowing pensively. Her brow furrowed, her gaze turning sad. "I remember you stabbing me. To provoke him."

Crowley looked away. "I had to. He can't be weak about this. It has to work."

"Is it too late to stop?"

"Yes."

"Then we keep going. I can stand it." Her words trembled, the confidence she struggled to put into them failing. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut against the fear in her voice. He wanted to stop, to let her up and bring her back to Gabriel. Anything to take the terror from her eyes. But he knew it was too late. Sam had to continue. Murron would become a demon, no matter how much he hated it.

The door opened and Sam came in, his head bowed. He returned to the trolley in silence and took up the silver knife again. When he raised it and his eyes to Murron, there was a hardness in them. It was with a stony face he laid the blade into her again, his expression impassive when she screamed.

It was done.

Sam trudged out of the dungeon, looking as beaten as a whipped dog. He ambled past Crowley, who remained at Murron's side. He knew this came at a high price to Sam's innate sense of goodness, but what more could they have done? The effects of the original trials were finally gone; he was healed. What they'd begun together was finally finished. If they parted ways now, it would be without any debts owned on either side. Sam could return to Dean and Crowley could take Murron away.

Gazing down at her now, her eyes fluttering between brown and black, Crowley felt his stomach drop. The woman he loved was no longer on that table. When she came to, it would be with a new view of things, a darker view. The generous nature that had defined her in life would no longer do so, replaced by something entirely other. Yet, in the very back of his mind, he wondered, had she been right? Would she be able to beat the odds and not lose herself entirely?

But before any of those questions could be answered, they had to get out of Hell. Crowley lifted Murron into his arms, cradling her close, and left the dungeon. Sam was in the corridor with Max at his side; he looked up when Crowley appeared.

"Is she all right?" he asked quietly. Crowley shrugged.

"Too soon to tell. Come on, we should get going."

Silently, the strange quartet drew together, Sam with one hand on Crowley's shoulder and the other resting on Max's back. The dirty corridor vanished from view as Crowley transported them all topside.

Once they reappeared, Murron's body smoked out of Crowley's arms, spiraling away from them. Sam looked up in alarm. "It's instinct," Crowley explained. "She's looking for a body. She'll be back." He looked up at the hunter with tired eyes. "You should go back to Dean. It's hard to say how long we were down there and he's a worrier."

"Don't worry about Dean. I told him I was going out to find angels and interrogate them," Sam said. "I said I'd be gone for a few days, if not more. He's so scattered now I doubt he even knows what month it is."

"It might not be my place to ask, but has Castiel been found yet?" Crowley asked after a moment's silence. Sam shook his head. "Well, he always turns up."

"Yeah," was Sam's absent answer. Then he nodded at a figure moving towards them. "I think she's back."

Crowley looked as well. Even in a foreign body, he recognised Murron's soul immediately. As she came closer, he saw she'd chosen a body similar to her own. The suit's dress sense was more revealing than Murron's had been, though if this bothered her, he couldn't say. Her gait was confident, assured.

She stopped in front of them and did an experimental turn, as if modeling a new dress. "What do you think?" she asked, a smile in her voice. The body was curvy, possessed of straight dark auburn hair, green eyes, and an angular face. She was shorter than Murron had been in life as well. When she'd finished her little spin, she turned those bright, foreign eyes on Crowley. "Do you like it? I found her walking around a mall nearby. She's still in here, screaming, but I can ignore her."

The absolute difference in speech and manner took Crowley aback. He'd anticipated a change in her, but never did he believe she would be so blase` about smothering another person's soul just so she could use their body. Sam, his only impression of her a few hours' old, seemed to share this confusion for he glanced down at Crowley, brows drawn together. "It's very nice, love," Crowley replied. He offered her his hand. "Shall we go, then?"

She accepted it, sidling in close beside him. "Where to?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere there's a bed," Murron purred, leaning in to nuzzle Crowley's neck. Sam cleared his throat loudly beside them.

"Maybe I should go back to the bunker. You guys probably have a lot of catching up to do," he remarked uneasily. "Max will have to stay with you; he can't get inside the bunker."

"Of course," Crowley nodded, snapping his fingers to summon the hound to him. "Thank you, Sam, for everything," he added, genuinely grateful. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

"Yeah, same to you," Sam said, glancing at Murron, who'd moved to dropping kisses along Crowley's face and jaw. "I'll - yeah, see you." He gave them an awkward wave, turned, and started for town. Crowley watched him walk away, his attention turning back to Murron when she bit his ear sharply.

"Easy, love," he chided her lightly. "You seem a bit frisky."

"Well, we haven't seen each other in how long now? Hundreds of years?"

Crowley frowned thoughtfully. The change in her was almost vulgar, even to him. The sweetness of temper had fled from her, leaving this wanton creature behind. Maybe he would get used to this Murron, even come to like it. But right now, he really wanted the warmth from her gentle eyes looking back at him, the soft touch of her hand on his. It was her soul, but not her. He would have to get to know this Murron all over again. He sighed, unable to keep it inside any longer. His reluctance was not lost on her.

"What's the matter?"

"You're just different, is all," he replied quietly.

"You don't like it?" There was genuine hurt in her voice. "But I thought you would. Isn't this body pretty?"

"Oh, my darling," Crowley stroked her face affectionately. "That's not it. Don't worry. We'll go and have a bit of a chat, see what becoming a demon has done to you. I can already tell it's made you bolder."

"I thought you liked bold?" Murron remarked, letting one hand slide down his chest suggestively.

"I do," Crowley replied, starting when she brushed her hand over him, giggling. "Okay, I'm taking you somewhere now." He pulled her closer to him, bringing another impish chuckle from her, and snapped his fingers, transporting them back to the cabin.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

It didn't occur to Crowley that the brothers might not want him bunking down in their cabin, but given that he had nowhere else to go, it had been the only course available to him. Besides, it would only be temporary. Eventually, he'd be able to take them elsewhere, far from the creeping fingers of Abaddon and anyone else who might seek to hurt them.

Murron had been a demon for two days now. Sometimes Crowley would catch her looking at her hands, marveling at them, flexing the fingers as if to remind herself she could control them. She spent a great deal of time in front of the only mirror in the cabin, turning this way and that. She'd grown remarkably sultry, something that should have excited him. Instead, it worried him. Oh, he knew she wouldn't be the same after the tranformation, but this new Murron was so alarmingly changed, he wasn't sure what to make of her.

They'd barely landed in the cabin when she'd jumped on him. He responded in the usual ways, able to overlook the foreign body that lay beneath him, the lips that ravaged his to the point of bruising. The memory of her tenderness haunted him. That was the Murron he'd wanted to be reunited with, not a wanton shadow of her. Everything he'd feared had come to pass and he wasn't sure if he wanted to continue with this Murron.

On the evening of the third day, Murron looked pointedly at Crowley and asked, "What's wrong with you?"

Crowley feigned ignorance, shrugging. "Don't know what you mean, love."

"No, there's something wrong. You haven't been talking to me like you used to. Is it the body? I can get another one. I'm sure I have a doppleganger in the world somewhere. Here, I'll go get another one and -"

Crowley stilled her with a touch. "That's not necessary." He frowned and sighed. "Maybe it's the humanity, maybe it's because I never imagined you as a demon, but..."

"But?"

"I have to get used to you this way, that's all," Crowley finished quietly. "When I set to get you out of Hell, it was to bring you back to your human life. Then you decided to help Sam and all of that went out the window. I hadn't planned for this."

"You don't like me as a demon?" Something like remorse entered her voice and Crowley looked at her. In the brilliance of the strange eyes he saw a glimpse of the Murron he knew and loved peering out at him. He glanced away for a moment, slipping his fingers between hers and holding her hand firmly. "I can really protect you now. I'm not a weakness anymore."

"So, you are still in there," Crowley remarked gently, smiling. "Only my Murron would think about my protection."

"I never stopped being your Murron, Crowley," she said, clearly injured. Her brows drew down over her eyes as her gaze drifted from his. "It's weird for me, too. I'm suddenly full of urges, violent, sexual urges. I want to make someone's life miserable, but at the same time, I want to...well, I want to stay here and fuck your brains out until we're both bruised and bleeding. Between the killing urges, all I want is you. It's like a physical pain when I'm not next to you, more than it ever was in life. What is that?"

"Natural good looks and charm?" Crowley quipped. She clicked her tongue impatiently. "I don't know, darling. I never bothered to think about it much."

"You told me once that demonic love was possession. Has my love for you turned possessive?"

"It's possible. I can own that I love you now, but it's still a possessive kind. I'd kill for you."

"I'd kill for you, too." She laughed suddenly and he blinked. "Is that where our sentiment is now? Expressing our devotion by saying we'd kill for each other?"

Crowley grinned. "Sounds about right. Though, I am curious about one thing."

"What's that?"

"Sam was trying to 'cure' me before he stopped the trials. To turn me human again. Do you think you'd want to be human again, for him to cure you?"

Murron considered this. "Is it as bad as being turned in the first place?"

Crowley raised his brows, recalling the vicious, not-too-pleasant delivery Sam had with the injections. "I think it depends on who's doing the curing," he said, absently rubbing the side of his neck at the memory.

"Would you cure yourself, too?"

Now, that, Crowley hadn't thought about for himself. He didn't enjoy the weaknesses being a human brought nor would he relish the absence of power. He'd been a demon for so long he couldn't even remember what it was like to be human. At least he'd be able to keep his preferred body. Scarred and maimed though it was now.

Murron suddenly started waving her hands about, as though struck with a flash of brilliance. Crowley stared at her, waiting. "Do you think Gabriel would still give me my body back even if I'm not human anymore?"

"Tired of your new look already?"

"Oh, she's fine, but it's noisy in here. I also miss my hair. It's so straight and...straight!" She tugged at the ends of her hair for emphasis. "I used to want straight hair, but now that I have it, it's boring! I also don't like the color. Too dark."

Crowley laughed. "Your priorities are right where they should be, darling. And I don't know, we can ask Gabriel. I don't know how pleased he'll be to find that our original deal has gone in an entirely different direction. He might not be as willing to listen. He may just say 'That's your lot' and go."

"But we can at least try, right?" Murron pressed a little wheedlingly. Crowley smiled and pat her cheek.

"Of course we can. I miss your freckled face, anyway."

"I know what you miss," Murron teased, cupping her breasts and pushing them up. "You miss the ones I used to have! Admit it!"

"Good God, woman!" Crowley laughed. Okay, demon Murron was certainly more entertaining. Gone was the shyness, the reluctance to take advantage of her relationship with him. Those things had irritated him considerably during their year together; to have them gone now was almost a relief. He loved her for her sweetness of nature and driving need to protect him, but he could have done without her slightly prudish approaches to the bedroom.

But he had to admit that he did prefer her real body. The one she wore now was fine, but it wasn't the one he'd lost himself in time and again. Would Gabriel do it? Had the rules of the game changed now that Murron had been turned? There was only one way to find out.

Murron stared around the former site of her home, a strange look crossing her face. Crowley had just finished a common summoning spell and was coming up to stand beside her when the same scent of incense and warm feathers washed over them. As before, Kali and Gabriel stood, the angel looking a little less haggard, some feet away.

"Now, that wasn't part of the deal, Crowley," Gabriel quipped, glancing at Murron.

"I know it wasn't. It was an...unforeseen circumstance," Crowley explained. "Still, I am willing to go through with the terms if you're willing to restore her body."

"What, so she can possess it?"

"Yes," Murron interjected, stepping forward. She squinted at him curiously. "How strange. I can see you, really see you. How I must look to you."

"Not very pretty if it must be said," Gabriel replied casually. Kali made a small exasperated noise. "Don't dig on the whole body swapping thing?"

"Not really, no. I miss my own body."

"Y'know, most demons don't get to occupy their original bodies twice," Gabriel pointed out languidly. "If your boyfriend there hadn't tried to make a deal with me, the angel of resurrection, thank you very much, I'll be here all weekend, you wouldn't even have a chance in, dare I say it? Hell, at getting your own body back."

"So you'll honor it still?" Crowley asked.

"Hold your hellhounds there, kingy," Gabriel put up his hands. "I never said that. You haven't given up your crown, have you? No, you haven't. That was the deal, those were the rules. Chuck the crown for your girlfriend. From what I can see, it's still sitting on your pretty lil' head."

"I would have fulfilled my half of the bargain if I hadn't been taken in by Abaddon and her cronies. The game's changed, angel. I can't do anything about that now."

"But you can still give it up. Saunter back downstairs, give your two weeks, take a bow, and come back here and bam. Girlfriend's got her body back and you guys can go be lovey-dovey demons somewhere far, far away from me."

"Is there a problem, demon king?" Kali asked.

"Abaddon still wants my head on a silver platter. And as much as I hate to admit it, I'm still smarting from her last temper tantrum."

"Hey, take your time. I'm not goin' anywhere," Gabriel said, shrugging. "Just don't take too much time or the missus there might get comfortable."

"I doubt that," Murron said. Gabriel shrugged again.

"Not my problem. Ciao, kids." Gabriel vanished in another flurry of beating wings, taking Kali with him.

Murron drew closer to Crowley in silence, her eyes turned skyward. Crowley gripped her hand where it rested on his forearm, squeezing it firmly. "We can't go back to Hell, not if you're still hurting from Abaddon's torture," Murron murmured. "You should rest."

"Yes," Crowley agreed. "But not at the cabin. We need our own...home." He smiled softly at the word. Home. Yes, just as it was then. They needed their own home. Living at the cabin was no longer an option. It left them too exposed. For what they needed to do, for what Crowley needed to do, they had to duck out of sight.

"Don't suppose you remember how to do those blood sigils, love?" he asked her. Murron's smile blossomed into a grin and she nodded. "Good. Let's go house hunting."

With Murron's newfound demonic nature came the love of ostentatious material possessions, beginning with their new "house". They spent the better half of the following day blinking in and out of cities, country roads, and rich suburbs, looking for just the right spot. It wasn't until they'd landed in upstate New York that Murron stilled Crowley's rapid teleporting.

"That. I want that," she pointed at an impressive manor house. Crowley made an appreciative noise and took them to the front doorstep. An elegant Cadillac sat in the cobblestone driveway, pure black, shining as though freshly washed and waxed. An assortment of tasteful decorations littered the front of the house; the lawn was abundant in plantlife, from exotic flowerbeds to bowing willow and cherry blossom trees. A paved walkway led from the driveway to the front door, which was elegantly carved with medieval scrollwork. A heavy brass handle matched the lionhead knocker set into the upper panels of the door. It was classic without being garish and suited both demons' tastes.

"Good choice, darling," Crowley purred, taking her arm and leading her up to the front door. "Let's let the owners know we'll take it."

Murron bit her bottom lip in gleeful anticipation. She hadn't had the opportunity to try her new abilities, Crowley knew, and was undoubtedly eager to flex her muscles. So as not to keep her waiting, he snapped his fingers and the door swung open. They stepped inside, arm in arm, like a pair of returning monarchs, heads held high and eyes flashing their respective red and black.

They made short work of the aristocratic 'old money' owners, dumping their bodies in the basement with all the pomp and ceremony two demons looking for their first love nest could muster. Once claimed, they walked through the house, taking in the fine rooms, elegant antique furniture, and lavish decor. It was the ideal dwelling for two lovers separated for too long. Upon discovering the master bedroom, they fell to celebrating in their own way, making love long into the night.

The wounds on Crowley's chest and abdomen steadily began to heal under Murron's careful hand. Even as a demon, she put Crowley first, looking for ways to make him comfortable and happy over her own needs. His needs had always been her needs and this had not changed. It had been a driving force in life and was now an even greater influence in everything she did. She let him guide her into this new life, deferring to his every command and piece of advice with a sacred reverence, as though his word had become her gospel. She was the ideal servant, lover, and student. In Murron, all of the love and respect his own kind had denied him dwelt within her, as it had when she was human. Only now it was different, potentially more meaningful, as now she could share in his desires, needs, and wants, even with the burden of humanity.

While her humanity had been snuffed out by Sam's efforts, she didn't seem to mind Crowley's. It hadn't dulled him to the point of being too emotional to function. He was more open with his feelings for her, but no longer seemed to allow it to affect him. It was with joy he reflected on their original year together, genuine tender joy, one that she could reciprocate with or without her humanity.

They'd been in their new home for a week when Murron began to notice real improvement with his wounds. She had him stretched out on the bed, his shirt open and loosened from his trousers. She leaned in to inspect the small pockets of scar tissue where Abaddon's tormentor had cut into him, her fingers coming up to gently slide over them. "I could kill her for doing this to you," she whispered savagely, hatred burning in her eyes.

Crowley felt his heart jump in his chest to hear her speak so vehemently. It both excited and concerned him; she wasn't strong enough to take on anything as powerful as Abaddon, that was true. But to hear her say she would thrilled him. "Careful, love, you keep saying things like that and I might have to bend you over again," he teased, meaning every word of it. Murron's snarl melted into an amused grin. "However, all kidding aside, it would be best if you let me handle it. Now, don't look at me like that. I'm not doubting your strengths. You're just still so new to being a demon; I wouldn't want to put you at risk."

Murron leaned on one hand, lips pursing to one side as she stared down at him with perturbed increduality. Crowley slid a finger beneath her chin, encouraging her to relax her face, and said, "If she kills you, you can't ever come back, my darling. I won't lose you twice."

This soothed her ruffled feathers and she laid down beside him, her head coming up to pillow on his chest. He cradled her close to him, kissing her hair tenderly. She draped an arm over him and gave him a small, firm hug. "I don't want to die, either, Crowley, but I also don't want to be useless. I know I have a lot to learn - again - but don't shut me out. Don't make me sit back and wait while you risk your own life. I can't lose you. Period."

"You won't. Nothing can come between us now," he assured her. "Not even Abaddon. I'll give up my throne, which should satisfy her, and then we can go away. I'm so tired of this fight, Murron. I thought ruling Hell would be enough for me. I thought I could make it better. And for awhile, I might have done. Then the Winchesters began the trials to close down the gates of Hell and I was forced to retaliate. My hold was still incomplete, but as I was the only one occupying the throne, no one contested my rule. There were a number of miscreants, renegades, that sort of thing, but all those I took care of. Abaddon was a wild card; she hadn't been in Hell for a number of decades. Turned out she'd timeskipped when she was chasing the Winchesters' grandfather. It's all very complex. I just know I'm done. After Sam couldn't complete the final trial and cure me, I knew all I wanted then was you. Our year together had been so simple, so perfect, all I wanted was for it to be that way again. Odd, isn't it? Life being easier during the Apocalypse?"

Murron gave him another squeeze. "They say hindsight is twenty-twenty; seems to be the case here."

"Indeed."

"How will you give up the crown?"

"I would go back into Hell, but I don't think that's necessary. I could simply summon her, declare it then and there, and be done with it."

"Gabriel said you needed to do it at the center of Hell, on the throne itself," Murron reminded him. Crowley smirked.

"There is no actual throne. There is a 'seat' in the center of Hades where I declared my rule in the first place; it's possible he means that. I have to disconnect myself from Hell."

"How will that affect your powers?"

"I'll still be strong. That'll never change. Being king gave me a wonderful boost, but I was plenty strong as the Crossroads King."

"Can you take that on again, do you think?"

"The way things are now, I don't think so. No, I must give up everything, all of my titles and the rights that come with them. I won't miss it. I've got you now." He drew her closer and kissed her head again. Murron made a pleased noise and nuzzled her cheek against his chest. "And soon, you'll have your body back and it'll be like nothing's changed. Well, save you becoming a demon and me being saddled with a conscience."

"Small things," Murron said conversationally. "At least now I can protect you better. Now I can kill for you."

"Given enough time, we'll be a formidable pair, you and I," Crowley murmured, resting his cheek against her head comfortably and closing his eyes. "My Persephone."

Murron giggled a bit. "When did you think of that?"

"I've always thought it. My modern Persephone, companion to my mad Hades." There was a great tenderness in his voice as he finally gave breath to those words. "With or without my kingdom, you'll always be that to me."

Murron drew up to look him in the eyes. She blinked, revealing the midnight black of her demon eyes, and smiled. "And you'll always be my king, now more than ever," she vowed. Crowley leaned in and kissed her with all of the possessiveness his love demanded. She returned it with equal ardor, sliding up his body to curl her arms around his neck. He embraced her tightly to him, savoring the feel of her even in this foreign body.

Even if he did throw his crown away and no one would ever follow him again, he still had her. And with her new identity as a demon, they were more equal than ever. More than his Persephone: she was now his queen.


End file.
